Mutiny
by Flaignhan
Summary: They had been so sure of themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Well this just sort of...happened. And I'm a complete fool for trying to write two Blackfrost stories in tandem, I _know_. But I'm super excited about this because of reasons. Oh, and ye be warned, here there be spoilers for The Dark World.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"I am telling you, they are _twice_ as big as elephants," Thor says enthusiastically. "_Everything_ is twice as big on Asgard, isn't it, Jane?"

Jane doesn't comment, and Natasha smirks, then downs some of her wine before anybody else notices her childish sense of humour.

"Well," Thor says disappointedly. "She didn't get much of a tour last time she was there."

"Sure, we believe you, buddy," Tony says, nodding sarcastically. "We believe you."

"I still can't get over it," Steve says. "I mean, in _my day_, other planets were the thing of movies, and movies were pretty radical back then too. And I _know_ we should know better than anybody that aliens exist…" His words are slightly slurred and Natasha smiles, knowing that he's about to go off on a tangent, telling them all about what the city was like seventy years ago. Tony yawns pointedly, but Steve doesn't notice, and continues to talk, Thor listening intently to him, while Clint flips the coaster off of the table edge with the back of his fingers and tries to catch it. Bruce quietly engages Jane in conversation, and Natasha rests her chin on the heel of her palm, settling herself down for another long winded history lesson.

She'll admit that it's nice to have everyone back together again, without the threat of imminent attacks. They'd barely gotten over last year's Chitauri attack before Natasha was being hauled all over the place by SHIELD, Clint too. She would very occasionally see Steve at the hub but never really managed to exchange more than a quick hi or have a quiet lunch with him in the cafeteria on those few rare occasions where they were both stopping for a while.

The rest of the evening passes by in a blur of more drinks and chatter, and Steve eventually falls asleep, his head resting on his arms, Thor chuckling loudly as Tony starts stacking beer mats on top of his head.

"What are the bars like in your home town, big guy?" Tony asks Thor when he runs out of beer mats. "Full of buxom wenches and ale?"

"Asgard has plenty of beautiful women," he tells him. "Though, not a patch on those one might find on Midgard," he adds, noticing Jane's raised eyebrow. She smiles, satisfied, and takes a sip of her drink. "You should all come to Asgard," Thor adds. "You have been gracious enough to welcome me on your world. I think it's about time I returned the favour."

"Yeah!" Jane says excitedly. "You guys, the bifrost is like _the_ best thing you will ever experience. Like a roller coaster but _way_ cooler."

"A roller _what_?" Thor asks, frowning down at her.

"Never mind," she says distractedly. "We should go, we should really _really_ go. You guys want to, right?"

"Yeah," Tony says. "Sounds…well it sounds pretty awesome to be honest," he concedes.

"Bruce?"

"Yeah, whatever, I'm in," Bruce says tiredly, waving a hand then draining the last of his beer.

Jane turns her gaze to Natasha, and she simply shrugs and nods. "Sure," she says. "Why not?"

Jane manages to extract an agreement from Clint as well, and Natasha fingers the stem of her wine glass, wondering how much trouble they'll be in with Fury if they all just disappear off the face of the planet without a moment's notice. She decides she doesn't care, however, and really, the prospect of seeing an alien world is actually kind of exciting, no matter how successfully she might be playing it cool.

"So," she says casually, directing her attention to Thor. "When are we going to make this little field trip?"

"Tomorrow," Thor says, looking down at Steve with a grin on his face. "I think the captain needs some rest."

* * *

Thor hadn't been exaggerating when he had told them of the wonders of Asgard. Natasha can't stop the soft _wow_ that escapes her lips when they step out onto the rainbow bridge for the first time, the icy pathway glittering in the sunlight and stretching ahead of them. The palace is beautiful, golden, and seems to shimmer in the glow of the warm sinking sun. In all her years of seeing extraordinary things on her travels, none of them can hold a candle to this.

"Come," Thor says, a beaming smile on his face. Natasha can't remember ever seeing him so happy. "There is much to see!"

Thor leads them towards the palace, and Natasha has to take long strides to keep up, Bruce ambling along beside her, hands dug deep in his pockets.

"It _is_ pretty cool," he admits to her as they make their way along the bridge.

"Glad you came?" she asks. He nods, and Natasha smiles. She's never been desperately curious about the place, but when Thor made his offer, there was a leap in her chest that left her knowing she would not be able to turn him down. Going to another world is something only a few people can claim to have done, and after all of Thor's enthusiasm about his home world (despite hanging around on Earth for months) Natasha is glad she decided that she needed to see it for herself.

Steve is slack jawed as they walk along, and Natasha keeps a close eye on him, just to ensure that he doesn't wander off the edge of the bridge and tumble into oblivion. When they reach the palace doors, golden uniformed guards pull the doors open for them, greeting Thor with courteous bows of their heads. Natasha follows him through the open doors, catching the curious glances that the rest of them are receiving from the guards, but pays them no attention. They probably look like quite a strange group to them, with their jeans, t-shirts and sweaters in a world of armour, leather, and sturdy boots.

"Okay," Tony says, casting his eyes around the interior of the palace, which is just as impressive as the outside with its expanses of perfectly carved marble, pillars as thick as ancient tree trunks, and high, arching ceilings. "This is pretty neat."

"You approve?" Thor asks, turning to him.

"Yeah," Tony says casually, nodding his head. "I approve."

Thor chuckles, and quickens his pace, dragging Jane alongside him, her little legs hurrying to keep up. The doors ahead open, and a tall, dark haired woman strides through, a thick fur tied about her shoulders, obscuring an intricately carved piece of armour.

"Sif!"

The woman, Sif, does not seem to share Thor's excitement. She smiles awkwardly at the group, then addresses Thor directly.

"The king wishes to speak with you," she tells him, then nods towards Jane in greeting, who raises a hand and waves politely. Sif returns her attention to Thor. "With _all _of you."

Thor looks taken aback for a moment, his eyebrows twitching into the smallest of frowns, but then it disappears, his expression replaced with a broad smile as he turns to the rest of them. "Well of course he does! I've told Father all about you, and while he doesn't usually care much for mortals, I think he might be interested in you."

Jane frowns and looks up at Thor, his expression immediately turning to one of sheepishness.

"I just mean - "

"I _know_ what you meant," Jane sighs, smiling slightly. "C'mon, let's go."

Thor leads the way, and as they pass Sif, Natasha notices that her face has dropped, her brow creased with concern, her eyes full of worry, but before she can ask her what's the matter, Sif has steeled herself, and marches quickly to the front of the group, leading their way through an intricate maze of corridors, past nearly identical guards stationed at every door.

The throne room is indeed impressive. Natasha doesn't know where to look, but when she walks slap bang into Thor's solid back because she's too busy admiring the golden pillars, she realises that something is wrong.

"Brother?" Thor whispers.

Natasha steps to the side, and looks up the steps towards the huge, decorative throne, on which sits a horribly familiar man. He seems quite at home on his throne, his limbs strewn lazily around, as though he were a teenager in an armchair. Even from this distance, Natasha can see that he looks healthier, stronger, than he did in New York. It might just be the warm light of the torches, but she is sure he has more colour to him, and he seems broader, more substantial.

Thor, dumbstruck, turns to Sif, who is looking determinedly ahead, her hands clasped in front of her.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Steve demands, looking between Thor and Loki, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I might ask you the same thing, Captain," Loki replies, rising from his throne and ambling down the steps towards them. "You come into _my_ kingdom, unannounced, _uninvited - _"

"Where is Father?" Thor asks softly, though his voice carries well in the large room, and he is heard loud and clear by all of them.

"Dead," Loki says coldly. "But you might have known that if you'd bothered to show your face around here every once in a while. Volstagg, your instructions."

Thor whips around, and Natasha follows his gaze to see a large, red bearded man lumbering in their direction. Before any of them can protest or put up a fight, Bruce has had his wrists bound in manacles.

"Volstagg, what are you -?"

"King's orders," Volstagg replies gruffly. He nods something of an apology to Bruce, who is staring down at his wrists, and Natasha knows that the cuffs are far more hardwearing than a basic set that one might find in the SHIELD equipment store. Bruce looks towards her and smiles, though Natasha can tell instantly that he's putting on a brave face. He doesn't like being restricted. None of them do. It's one of the few traits they all share.

"But he's not the _king_," Thor whispers, shaking his head. "He _can't _be."

"Oh but I am," Loki tells him, his lips twisting into a satisfied smirk. "With Father dead and you abandoning your people, the line of succession fell to me. I wouldn't bother trying to transform, Dr Banner," he says, turning to Bruce. "They won't break, so if you'd like to keep your hands _firmly_ attached to your wrists…"

Natasha places a hand on Bruce's back, rubbing his shoulders as soothingly as she can, while simultaneously trying to work out exactly how they can get out of this. She feels him let out a shaky breath and hopes to god that he can keep _the other guy_ under control, though with the way things are panning out, Natasha thinks _she_ might just turn into a rage monster, gamma radiation or not. She can't believe they were so stupid as to come unarmed to another world, a world that Thor hasn't been to for _months_. It feels like such a childish error, now that they're here, face to face with a man who should be dead.

"Loki…" Thor steps forward, and before any of them can process what's happening, including Loki himself, Thor pulls him into a hug, his arms locked around Loki's body. His face contorts into a venomous expression and he twists out of Thor's grip, pushing him away.

"Don't _touch_ me," he hisses.

"I thought you _dead_," Thor croaks. "And king or not, I will hug my brother." He breaks into a smile, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears.

"You will _not_," Loki says haughtily, dusting himself off. Thor's smile fades, and Natasha chews on the inside of her lower lip, casting her gaze to the doors behind them, flanked by half a dozen guards. When she turns back towards Thor and Loki, she notes a few more guards slipping into the room quietly, and so she surreptitiously gives Clint's ankle a jab with her toe. He turns to look at her, and she glances towards the guards. He gives her the smallest of nods in return, confirming that he too has noticed their ever growing audience. Natasha moves closer to Bruce, more concerned for him than anyone. Besides Thor, Loki arguably has the biggest axe to grind with Bruce, and now he has rendered him unable to defend himself.

"What happened to Father?"

"He fell into the Odinsleep and never awoke," Loki says with mock sadness. "It was _tragic_."

"And you didn't think to _tell me_?" Thor asks. "You held his funeral _without me_?"

"Oh…" Loki says softly, taking a step back. "You mean, me informing you _myself_ of Father's death and allowing you to attend the funeral would have been the decent thing to do?"

"_Yes_," Thor says through gritted teeth. "Do not tell me that you thought I would not care, do not lie to me."

"Sorry," Loki says, though it's plain to all that he's not sorry at all. "It's just that I seem to remember being told by a lowly _prison guard_ that mother had been murdered, and I _seem_ to remember you holding the funeral without me, while I rotted alone in the dungeons. Call me bitter, but I really couldn't care _less_ about your feelings."

Thor buries his face in his hands, taking deep, steadying breaths.

"Well it seems you boys have a lot of issues to work through," Tony says casually, taking a few steps backwards towards the doors. "So I think we should probably give you some privacy."

"Ah ah ah," Loki says, holding up a finger. "Not so fast. You've hardly _seen_ the palace. I can _really_ recommend a stay in the dungeons."

"Brother _no_," Thor says, stepping forward. He spreads the fingers of his right hand, in expectation, but as soon as they hear the whooshing sound of Mjolnir, Loki waves a hand, and the hammer drops to the floor with a loud, echoing clang. Thor turns around, and holds his hand out again, staring at Mjolnir, but it doesn't move.

"You're not worthy," Loki tells him. "He who abandons his realm cannot hoard its treasures." He holds out his hand, and Mjolnir flies obediently to it. He smirks down at the hammer, relishing in the feel of it in his hand, then tosses it over his shoulder carelessly, Sif ducking to avoid its path. She retreats to stand by the side of a blond man, a rapier tucked securely into his belt. They both look down at the floor as though they're wishing they were somewhere else, far away from this particular family feud.

"Brother, let me take them to Heimdall," Thor says, gesturing behind him. "He can return them to Midgard, and then we can…deal with this as you please."

Loki shakes his head. "No. Trespassers shall not be set free so they can _reoffend_. What do you take me for? An idiot?"

"Now just hold on a second," Steve says, but Natasha knows that arguing is no use. They are outnumbered, unarmed, and well out of range for any support from SHIELD. Loki ignores Steve and walks up to Thor.

"Don't worry," he says softly into Thor's ear, his hand resting on his shoulder. "I'll have them put your woman in the cell next to yours. You won't be too far away from her." He gives his shoulder a rough pat and smirks, before turning away, and heading back up the steps towards his throne. "Guards," he adds casually. "_Seize them_." He chuckles to himself as the guards rush forward and says: "I've always wanted to say that."

Natasha doesn't bother to fight, unlike Clint, who is too damn stubborn for his own good. The broken nose he gives one of the Asgardians only results in him taking a rather hefty blow to the head, leaving a deep gash on his brow. They are all secured within seconds, and she has two guards holding her in place, each with a firm grip on her upper arms. None of the guards seem to want to take Thor, however, and when Loki sits down and views the scene before him, he sighs exasperatedly.

"Fandral, Volstagg, escort my _brother _to the dungeons. Sif. You lead the way. You're in charge."

"My liege?" Sif says uncertainly, turning slowly to face him.

"Yes?" Loki replies, fixing her with a sharp gaze.

"He _is_ the prince," Sif says cautiously, running an index finger along the edge of her armour.

"As was I when the last king banished _me_ to the dungeons. I am within my rights," Loki replies, turning away from her, apparently considering the matter closed. Sif doesn't seem to agree, and Natasha stands on tip toe to get a better view, the guards apparently sharing her curiosity as they allow it it.

"His crime?" Sif asks delicately, avoiding Loki's gaze.

Loki frowns, pauses, and then apparently comes up with an answer. "Treason," he says brightly. "Brutishness," he continues, counting the crimes off on his fingers. "_Ugliness_. Need I go on? I daresay I could provide you with an extensive list before supper."

Sif sighs and nods, leading the way down the steps towards Thor. Volstagg and Fandral follow behind her, and stand either side of Thor, though they do not touch him.

"After everything, you will throw me in the dungeons like a criminal?" Thor says, his voice cracking. "After I have loved you, in spite of your crimes, in spite of all those times you tried to _kill_ me? After I have _stood by you_?"

"Don't you _dare_!" Loki bellows, pushing himself up from his throne and sprinting down the steps to meet Thor head on. The silence rings louder than Loki's shout, and everyone, including the guards, is frozen in place. "Don't you _dare_," he whispers.

"Loki - "

"I _died_ saving _your life_. Avenging _mother's_. Doing that which you could _not_," he says softly. "And then you left my body to _rot_ on a frozen plain," he hisses, then takes a step back, all traces of anger and bitterness disappearing from his expression. "Tell me again how you loved me?"

"The universe was _ending_," Thor tells him earnestly, his hands pressed together as though in prayer as he beseeches him. "What would you have had me do?"

"I would have had you give a damn," Loki says coldly. "Because there is not a single person here who will believe you if you say you would have abandoned Father's body as you abandoned mine. You would not have left him, nor mother, nor your precious _Jane_." He shoots a look down at Jane, and she stares up at him defiantly, her jaw set. "But you abandoned me. As you have always done."

"Brother _please - _"

"Make haste, Sif, I require the three of you for our counsel," Loki orders, retreating to his throne once more. Sif nods, and, avoiding Thor's broken gaze, she moves towards the doors, and Natasha finds herself being chivvied along by the guards. She twists in their grip to look at Loki, sprawled comfortably in his throne as he watches them. His lips twist into a smirk, and he raises a hand, giving her a lazy wave of greeting, before the doors are slammed behind them, and they are led downstairs, towards the dungeons.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I got a bit carried away...and chapter three might be waiting in the wings...and it might be a bit..._steamy_. (Insert sniggering here.)

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Natasha is thrust into a cell with two white walls and two glass screens. She considers that she might be one of the privileged, graced with the luxury of a dual aspect cell, while the others are forced to make do with just the one glass partition. Clint is placed in the cell directly opposite Natasha, and he aims a swift kick at the wall when the glass slides shut, sealing him in. Along from him are Steve, Tony and Bruce respectively, while Thor is being ushered into the cell next to Natasha's, and Jane is locked inside the one on his other side.

"You have to help us," Thor pleads as the guards disperse. "Fandral - "

"He's the king," Fandral replies. "His word is law. _Literally_."

Natasha hears Thor slam a fist into the wall, feels the vibrations shudder their way through her own cell, and she doesn't see the use in getting so wound up. Loki will not be beaten by brute force. He must be outsmarted, and right now, she will admit, that outsmarting him from a prison cell seems unlikely, but she'll be damned if she's just going to scream and cry like a child throwing a tantrum. It's a waste of energy. Clint must know this too, because he's skulking around his cell, hands in his pockets, ignoring the conversation, but Natasha listens in. She can't help herself, she always has to listen, to try and detect any morsel of information which might later be used to her advantage.

"Sif, _please_."

"We have to go to the counsel," she says blankly. "He'll be waiting."

"What power does he hold over you?" Thor bellows, losing his patience. "What has he done to you to make you all so…"

"So _what_?" Volstagg asks, his brow furrowed.

"_Cowardly_," Thor finishes. "You will all throw your oldest friend in prison because _he_ is your king?"

"We are honour bound to him," Sif says sharply, and even from this distance, Natasha can feel the intensity of the glare she throws in Thor's direction. "As we were to your father, and as we would have been to you, had you not turned your back on this realm."

"Sif, that's not - "

"Oh Fandral, what does it _matter_? If you want to commit treason, be my guest, but I will have no part in it. He cannot deny the throne and then get upset when he returns to find that someone else has taken it."

"I don't _want_ the throne," Thor growls. "But you've made your feelings clear, Sif. _Leave us_."

Sif raises an eyebrow. "You are in no position to be giving orders, prince or not," she says, resting one hand on her hip.

"You've changed," Thor says disgustedly. "All of you."

"Don't be like that," Volstagg says, forcing a smile. "He was never going to welcome you back with open arms…this is probably just…he'll come round."

"We have to go to the counsel," Fandral says quietly. "Come along."

The three of them disappear, the doors to the dungeons closing behind them. Natasha sits down cross legged on the floor of her cell, and tries to blank out the sound of Thor's rage. It's difficult, when the floor and the walls are shaking from his stamping and his punching, and even more difficult is silencing the roar the issues from him, feral and harsh. She closes her eyes, retreating into her mind to try and figure out what exactly Loki's playing at. She doesn't think he will have Thor killed - he's tried so many times that she is certain that it's all just for show, that he can't really mean it if he hasn't actually gone through with it by now. As for the rest of them, she's not sure how much mercy he will bestow upon them. Bruce is in a dangerous position, defenceless and hated, but Natasha doesn't wager that she's in a much better spot herself. After all, she saw through him, while everybody else was bickering, she was the one who engaged him in verbal warfare and _won_.

She wonders if he might fall for the same trick twice.

She has been in enough prison cells however, to know that she won't be going anywhere anytime soon, and so she shuffles towards the corner, making herself comfortable, her fingers tracing the tally marks scratched into the wall.

Somebody was in here for a _really_ long time.

* * *

"I think maybe Cancun next year," Tony muses, his arms resting on his knees as he looks towards the ceiling of his cell. "Or maybe Barbados, everybody loves Barbados, right?"

"Tony, give it a rest," Bruce sighs, his manacles clinking as he scratches his his head.

"No to Barbados? Okay, what about Reykjavik?"

"_Tony_," Steve says sharply. "Enough."

"Sorry," Tony says, pushing himself to his feet. "And the alternative is to what? Mope around until good King Loki decides to release us?"

"Oh, and I suppose you have a plan, do you?" Steve asks, turning to speak to the wall, as though addressing Tony.

"I was held captive in the middle of the desert by terrorist for _weeks_. I built my first suit to escape from there. I sure as hell ain't dying in here any more than I was gonna die in that godforsaken hell hole. I'm gonna get out of this."

"It's just talk…" Steve sighs. "Just…_talk_."

Tony narrows his eyes, but doesn't say a word, as Steve sinks to his haunches, resting his head in his hands.

"Reykjavik is a very beautiful place," Jane says tentatively.

"_Thank you_, Jane," Tony says pointedly. "And when I get out of here, you'll be the _first one_ I rescue."

Steve rolls his eyes, and Natasha looks across at Clint, who has, apparently, been watching her through the discussion. His expression is quite plain.

_It's only gonna get worse_.

She hopes this whole affair won't be long and drawn out. If he's going to send them all to the gallows then she'd much rather it be sooner as opposed to later. She very much doubts that that's Loki's end game, however, and knows that she's going to have to get used to this. This cell, with its glaring lights and faint traces of blood absorbed into the floor, is going to be her new home. She supposes she ought to make the most of it.

"How do the cells operate?" Clint asks, tearing his gaze away from Natasha to look towards Thor.

"The guards' spears unlock them," Thor tells him, his voice raw, from his earlier raging. "They act like a key. There's a slot on the pillars, you can probably see, they're not hidden."

Natasha moves forward towards the glass, squinting across at the pillar between Clint's and Tony's cells. There are two dark narrow gaps in the stonework, and Natasha assumes that these are what Thor is referring to.

"So one of us would only have to break out at the right moment, get a spear, and free everybody else?" Steve asks.

"The spears can only be used by Asgardians. I don't even know if _I_ will be able to use them, given that Loki has stripped my powers from me."

Natasha leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. The only way that they're going to get out of here is if they're let out of here. It's not an admission of defeat, it's knowing a lost cause when she sees one. She will not focus all of her efforts on trying to find a solution that doesn't exist. What she _will_ work on, however, is trying to find a way to convince someone, _anyone_ to let her, or one of the others out of here. Once one of them is outside, it'll be far easier to get everybody else out, even if that means sneaking up on Loki in the dead of night and holding a gun to his head until he releases everybody. It's rather lacking in style, but sometimes a bit of old fashioned barbarism is required, and she will stop at nothing to make sure that she gets back home and takes everybody with her.

The conversations continue late into the evening, and at one point, a pair of guards show up. One of them inserts his spear into the lock, and twists it, Natasha sitting up as the glass panel at the front of her cell slides open. It stops after around twelve inches, and the other guard slides a metal tray through the gap, before the spear is twisted back the other way, and the panel slides shut again. On the tray is some bread, cheese, and a cup of water. So much for an Asgardian feast.

She watches as everybody else is delivered their food, and it's only once the guards have disappears that she makes any move towards her tray. Clint is picking at his bread, his nose crinkled in distaste. Natasha picks up her cheese and bites at the corner of it. It's full of flavour, and her jaw twinges with the tanginess, but she can't bring herself to appreciate it. It is, after all, still prison food, and is destined to taste bitter, no matter what the flavours are.

"Is that cheese?" Clint asks, frowning across at Natasha.

"Yeah," she replies with a shrug. "Why?"

Clint shakes his head and looks down at his food. "I didn't get any cheese."

Natasha sighs. "Well complain to the chef, send it back," she says, rolling her eyes.

"How come you got cheese?" Tony asks, peering over to Natasha's cell.

"Oh good," Clint says, feigning cheerfulness. "So it's not just me then. Anybody else get cheese?"

There is a chorus of 'no's, and Natasha shifts uncomfortably, looking down at her cheese. It's stupid, that something so small and insignificant can start such an argument, but it seems like Loki knows exactly what he's doing. It's not even been six hours and already, they're bickering like children because somebody's got some god damn _cheese_.

"So what's so special about you?" Clint asks, his eyes not leaving her as he takes a sip of his water. "Why are you in favour with him?"

"In favour?" Natasha says sceptically, raising her eyebrow. "It's a lump of cheese."

"Yeah, and there are seven of us here and only you got it. Why?"

"Don't take it out on her," Steve says, tearing off a piece of his bread. "She didn't ask for the cheese."

"Maybe she didn't, but something must have happened, because she's _got_ cheese_._"

"Hawkeye, leave it alone," Bruce calls. "It doesn't _matter_."

"Okay," Clint says airily. "All I'm saying is it's only been six hours and she's already wormed her way into being teacher's pet. I _know_ what she's like, remember? And I know what she _used_ to be like."

"Fuck _you_," Natasha spits, jumping to her feet and jabbing her finger angrily towards Clint. "Don't you _dare_ pull that shit with me."

Clint shrugs, tosses a lump of bread into the air and catches it in his mouth. She can't believe how quickly he's fallen, how soon he has stooped to such low blows. And all over some _cheese_.

"Nat," Tony says softly. "Has anything gone down?"

"_What_?" She can't believe he's even asking the question.

"You need to tell us if it has. We're only gonna get out of here if we're honest with each other. If you're planning something, or if you're negotiating with him, you need to let us know."

"I have been in this cell the _entire_ god damn time, just like you guys!" she argues. "What the _fuck_ are you saying?"

"Look, you fooled me into thinking you were a bonafide PA, I know you have a way, that's all."

"You weren't exactly _challenging_," Natasha retorts, pacing around her cell.

"Be that as it may, the question still remains. Why the cheese?" Tony fixes her with a piercing stare, and she stops pacing, looking at him in disbelief.

"Fuck the fucking cheese!" she yells.

"I don't think that's gonna help anybody," Bruce chimes in, smiling serenely, slumped against the glass. Apparently, he alone is managing to stay calm in all of this, apart from Thor and Jane, who have remained silent throughout. She can't see them however, so for all she knows, they could be throwing dark looks in her direction too.

"I have been with all of you this _entire_ time, and you think I'm what? In cahoots with Loki for the sake of a piece of _cheese_?"

"Let's just…leave the subject alone," Steve says. "Fighting amongst ourselves isn't going to help anybody. Right?"

They all fall silent, and after she paces the width of her cell a few more times, Natasha sits back down, takes a bite out of her cheese, and glares at Clint as she chews it, relishing in his poisonous gaze.

"What kind of cheese is it?" Thor asks softly.

"Dude, are you _serious_?"

"Just wondered," Thor replies. "He might have just given her normal cheese, like the palace servants get, or he might have given her good cheese, which we only ever have at feasts. I was curious as to which it was."

"Oh it's good," Natasha replies darkly. "It's really good."

Somehow, now that she has Clint's venomous expression as a condiment, the bitter taste fades from the cheese, and with each bite, her meal gets sweeter and sweeter.

* * *

The night passes slowly, and after the lights go out, there is an unwritten rule that none of them say a word. Natasha lays down on her side, resting her head on her arm, trying to shut her brain off. She's finding it hard though, because it keeps telling her that she mustn't let the others' reactions get to her. They can't help it - tensions are running high and she's the only one who really has any idea what it's like to be held captive like this. She's the only one who's built up an immunity to this kind of thing. She wonders if Loki knows that, wonders if that's why he's playing this stupid game, turning them all against her because she's the one that will be able to handle this best, she's the one that will inject some sanity into the situation. Whatever his motives, he must be feeling pretty damn good about himself right now, and she's not gonna lie that she's feeling the exact opposite of that. Clint's betrayal hurts the most, but she knows him to be particularly sensitive over Loki, and with good reason. He must be finding this more stressful than any of them, constantly fearing that he'll be compromised, that he'll be forced to kill people on his own side, just like last time. She knows he's just taking it out on her, probably because he knows she will forgive him, because she will understand what it's like to be in his shoes and so she will sweep it under the rug and forget all about it. All the same, having him throw her past in her face hurts. There's no other word for it. It just plain fucking _hurts_.

She'd expected better of him.

She can tell that nobody's sleeping. Far too often she will hear a sigh, the rustle of a jacket, the clink of a manacle. She tries to retreat into her mind, make the time pass more quickly, pretend that she is anywhere but here, but any time she gets close to it, she is disturbed by some small, inconsequential noise. She rolls onto her front, burying her face in her arms, hands clasped over her ears, and eventually she manages to drift off into a light sleep, but when she is horribly awoken by the glaring lights blooming into life, she feels as though she has barely slept at all. Glancing across to the others, she sees that they look as terrible as she feels.

Nobody says anything, but the silence is broken by sleepy sighs. Clint hasn't looked at her, and Natasha thinks it's probably on purpose, their argument from last night still hanging uncomfortably in the air between them. She looks across to Steve, who offers her the smallest of smiles and a slight nod, but that's as much acknowledgement as she gets from anyone. Ten minutes of unpleasant silence pass before the guards enter, trays of food piled on top of each other. They approach Clint's cell first, one of them placing his spear in the lock, while the other waits patiently for the glass to slide across, tray in hand. Natasha groans inwardly, knowing what's about to happen a second before it does. As soon as the gap between glass and wall is big enough, Clint jumps to his feet, reaching his arm through the gap and grabbing the guard by the collar and hauling him towards the cell, slamming his head against the pillar. The tray drops to the floor with a clatter, and the other guard rushes to help, while Steve and Tony both press themselves against the glass, trying, and failing to see what's going on. There's a brief struggle, but then Clint yells out in pain, falling backwards and releasing the guard, who stumbles over to the spear, still suspended in the lock, and turns it back the other way. The glass slides shut again, Clint hunched against the wall, clutching his arm, glaring at the guards.

"What's going on?" Steve demands, standing on tip toes, as though that will aid his view. "Hawkeye? What's happening?" He looks to Natasha, who sighs, knowing that Clint is in far too foul a mood to offer any explanation.

"He tried to escape. And now he has no breakfast."

"Are you okay?" Jane calls. "Is anything broken?"

"_Fine_," Clint grunts, skulking around his cell as the guards move on to Steve with a fresh tray. He retreats to the back of his cell as they approach, hands raised in surrender, and this seems to settle them. Steve is delivered his breakfast without incident, as is everyone else, even Thor, who the guards are still wary of. When they reach Natasha's cell however, they tread with a little extra caution. She wonders what they know about her, whether they class her as the same level of threat as Clint, if they know that they have worked together time and time again and have similar modus operandi. Maybe Loki has simply told them to watch out for her, because he's been burnt before.

"If I'm gonna escape," she tells them, hands resting on her knees, her body perfectly still. "It's gonna work. And throwing myself at a tiny gap blocked by two Asgardians _isn't_ going to work."

She feels Clint's venomous glare more than she sees it, and she chooses to ignore him. It was a dumbass thing to do, was never going to work, and has only ended up with him being hurt and hungry. The Asgardians will beat them hands down every time when it comes to brute force, so it needs to be a brain game, not a muscle game. Lulling them into a false sense of security then picking an opportune moment will be far more effective than frequent, heavy handed escape attempts at meal times.

The glass slides across, and Natasha stays stock still, watching each of their movements, taking note of twitch in one guard's jaw as he bends down to place the tray on the floor. Back injury. That suggests that both of them have been deemed unfit for active service in the Asgardian army, and that the prison guards are ex-soldiers, nursing scars that will never fade. She tucks that information away in the corner of her mind, should things ever come to exchanging physical blows, though she hopes she won't have to utilise it. There are hundreds, if not _thousands_ of guards that they would have to pass before they could make it back to the bifrost, and even then, they couldn't be sure that Heimdall would betray the king by sending them home.

As the guards depart, she looks down at her tray. Her stomach jolts when she sees that not only does she have bread and cheese, but she also has an apple. She's not the only one to have spotted it either, because Clint's dark expression has intensified, and Tony's eyes are fixed on the tray, a piece of bread suspended in his hand, halfway to his mouth.

It's going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Someone's on a roll...and that someone is expecting a complete burnout in a few chapters' time...

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

By their third day in captivity, Natasha has had enough. Breakfast passes with a number of dirty looks thrown in her direction - she has been promoted to buttered bread, and last night with dinner she was graced with some cold chicken. If she's going to be favoured simply to turn everybody against her, and if they'll turn on her without any real solid reason to other than jealousy, then she's going to make damn sure that she uses her favoured position to her advantage, the rest of them be damned. They're playing into Loki's hands, and she's sure they know that, deep down, but hunger creates monsters, especially when it comes to people who aren't used to such things - Tony, who has never wanted for a thing in his life, Clint, who has always been well fed, and rarely spent more than a night in a cell before escaping. Thor is quiet, probably well aware that hunger leaves him with a very short fuse, and Jane too only occasionally speaks, mainly checking in on Bruce, who is keeping his head down and getting on with things as best he can.

When the guards turn up to bring them lunch, Natasha stands up and approaches the glass. They hold back with her tray, which she smugly notes has a thick slice of ham laid out, as well as buttered bread, cheese, and a small bunch of grapes.

"I want a shower," she tells them. Her hair is lank and greasy, and she gestures to it, as though it is good enough cause for them to release her on the spot.

"Well only the king can allow that. We can pass the message on," one of them says to her, and he turns his spear in the lock, glass screen sliding away.

"Thanks," she says, knowing that rudeness will get her nowhere. She doesn't imagine the guards want to be holding them captive any more than Thor's friends do, but a job's a job and sometimes you just have to deal with it. She knows that as well as anyone.

Just as she's chewing on her last piece of ham, and feeling rather satisfied with what could be a nice lunch, were it not served up in a cell, Sif and Fandral arrive in the dungeons.

"Sif!" Thor says urgently, and Natasha hears him scramble to his feet. "What news?"

"Agent Romanov requested a shower," she says, avoiding his gaze. "We've come to escort her."

"But what about the rest of us?" Thor asks.

"If you want to wash you have to put in a request, and it all has to go through the king. I'm sorry Thor, it's just how it is."

Fandral unlocks the cell and the glass slides away, pausing when there is just enough room for Natasha to comfortably step through.

"You know I'm not asking about _washing_," Thor says impatiently. "When will we be released? When will he even _talk_ to us?"

Sif sighs, her shoulders slumping. "Just give him time," she says softly. "You know how he is, he'll grow bored eventually."

"Talk to him, reason with him, _please_. Just, help us get out of here."

"Come on," Sif says to Natasha. "Let's go."

Thor calls after them, but the dungeon doors clang shut behind them, blocking out the sound of his begging. Natasha doesn't say anything as they climb the steps, her thighs aching from lack of proper use. When they make it above ground, she inhales deeply, relishing the sensation of fresh air in her lungs. She hadn't realised how musty it had been down there, and now she's out in the realm of the free, she knows it will be particularly bitter when she has to return to her cell.

"So er…" she begins, trying to ease the silence. "Loki as _king_, how's that one working out?"

Sif's lips twitch into a smile. "Surprisingly well, actually," she replies. "Isn't it, Fandral?"

Fandral hums in agreement, nodding his head. "The throne suits him well."

This is something of a surprise to Natasha. She had expected tales of subjugation, unfair judgements, ridiculous laws passed into action, but no, neither of them have anything bad to say about their king, and she's not sure that it's simply down to a loyalty that is required due to rank, rather than opinion. It does, however, explain a lot about why Sif seems unhappy to talk to Thor, to even entertain his requests for help.

"This is the same guy who tried to take over Earth with a shit load of aliens, right? Same Loki?"

"Same Loki," Sif confirms. "Same man, but it seems that his ascension has stabilised him. He seems…" she casts her eyes around, one hand held aloft, fingers clutching at the air as she tries to find the right word. "_Happy_."

"Happy…" Natasha repeats in disbelief. "Right. Well I guess I'd be happy too if I was king."

"Quite," Sif says, smiling a little.

She considers asking a few more questions, such as how long Sif estimates they'll be locked up, or whether Loki has even mentioned them during counsels, but it is the tentative smile that puts her off. She has laid the first few building blocks of a very unsteady bridge, and if she pushes too hard, too soon, it might just crumble before her eyes. At the very least, Natasha has learned that Loki not only has Thor's friends fooled into thinking he's a born again do-gooder, but from the sounds of things, the rest of the kingdom too. She doesn't know how he managed it, whether he played the prodigal son card and pled redemption, or perhaps he leaned heavily on his sacrifice for Thor, but either way, it's worked. She knows that neither Sif nor Fandral are under Loki's powers, knowing how Clint was before, his eyes distant and cold. There is a warmth to both of them, that can't quite be stifled by the unfortunate task they have been landed with.

"One of the household staff has drawn a bath for you," Sif tells her, pushing open a door that leads to a dimly lit room. Fandral waits outside, hands clasped in front of him.

"A gentleman now, are we Fandral?" Sif asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I am _always_ a gentleman," Fandral replies, straightening his jacket. "Prisoner or not, I shall respect the lady's privacy."

Sif smirks, and as they walk inside, she mutters under her breath, "Loki advised that he didn't cross you."

Natasha almost smiles, and wonders if perhaps she is being kept sweet because Loki considers her to be dangerous, unpredictable. She'd take it as a compliment, if he ever actually admits it, but she knows that day will never come.

Considering she's a prisoner, however, this isn't exactly prison treatment she's getting. The bathroom is bigger than her entire apartment, and she doesn't imagine she'll be receiving a cold hose down in here. Not that she'd care to be honest, she's had worse, and as long as she can get her hair clean and rid herself of the stale smell of three days' worth of sweat, she'll be happy.

The bath is sunk into the stone floor, and she doesn't know how deep it is, but it is apparently deep enough to require a set of steps, carved into the side of it. It's more like a hot tub than anything else - completely round, the steam rising in spirals from the water, which is lapping gently at the edges, occasionally spilling up onto the floor and trickling down towards a grate set into the tiles.

"Everything you need should be here," Sif tells her. "Clean clothes." She gestures towards a neatly folded pile resting on top of a chair. "Towels." There are half a dozen fluffy beige towels stacked neatly in a cabinet. "All kinds of soaps and things, I don't know what half of them are…" She wrinkles her nose a little as she waves a hand vaguely towards the coloured glass bottles piled on a small shelf unit, in comfortable reach of the bath.

"Thanks," Natasha says.

"We'll come back in an hour or so," Sif tells her. "There'll be guards stationed outside if you need anything."

"Okay…" Natasha says uncertainly. As Sif heads for the door, she can hardly believe what's happening. She's being left alone in a room that's not particularly well secured, although she can see no obvious way out. They must be fairly confident that she won't be able to make a run for it however, otherwise they'd have Sif keeping watch on her while she bathes.

The door closes, and Natasha hears the familiar sound of bolts being drawn across, followed by the clanking of armour as the guards take position. Deciding she'd better make the most of her bath, and that any hygiene based escape attempts should wait until she has a clearer idea of how things are being run, she strips off her dirty clothes, tosses them into the corner, and steps down into the bath, the water so hot that it sears her skin. She immerses herself fully, dunking her head under, redness blooming under her skin due to the heat. She reaches out for the bottles, trying to work out which one is shampoo, and when she finds a fragrant, thick liquid, she empties a dollop into her hand and rubs it curiously with a fingertip. It starts to lather, and she takes that as a good enough sign, immediately slapping it onto her hair and massaging it in. She hates being dirty. She can deal with it if she knows she'll be going home to a hot shower, but stuck in that cell, she was never going to get even a basin of water and a cloth unless she asked for it. She's just grateful that whatever game Loki's playing is working in her favour, and as she scrubs her face with an interesting, gritty mixture that smells faintly of apricots, she can't find it in her heart to give a damn about everybody else. They're probably gossiping about her as she sits here, but it's not _her fault_ that none of them considered that _asking_ might be a way forward. Has Thor even requested a negotiation with Loki? _No_. Has he asked Sif to do all the hard work for him? _Yes_. If any of them dare pass judgement when she returns, she will make the biggest deal out of whatever food she's given tonight, regardless of whether she enjoys it or not.

She can hear footsteps approaching, and she knows it's him before he even steps into the room. She ignores him, far too content to be out of her cell to have the moment ruined by him. If he hopes to intimidate her just because she's naked, he's going to be sorely disappointed. She's not precious over her body, she has used it as a weapon far too many times to worry about who sees what. Nevertheless, she keeps herself well submerged; only an idiot plays their trump card in the first round.

She runs her fingers through her hair, glad to have it clean at last, and inhales the lingering scent of the shampoo. If she's ever freed, she is definitely going to take some of that stuff with her. She twirls a damp lock of hair around her finger and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the edge of the bath as she hears him draw close. She can tell when he sits down on the floor behind her; it's as though a shadow falls over her, blocking the heat and the light from the torch behind them. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, his green eyes narrowed in curiosity before they trail down her face and neck, over her shoulders, until they meet the water.

"Can I help you?" Natasha asks softly, still twiddling with her hair, very aware of the moisture glistening on her skin in the low light. He seems aware of it too, because he's doing an awful lot more looking than she is used to, and so she allows her lips to curve into a small smile, tilting her chin upwards and exposing her neck. He's not dressed in his usual garb. He's done away with all the leather and metal and regal paraphernalia. Instead he is wearing a pair of trousers and a simple, light, tunic. It's green, naturally, and looks to be made of some incredibly soft material, almost like velvet but not quite. The v-shaped collar bares a little of his pale chest, and Natasha thinks he must be feeling quite cocky to come in here unprotected. Has he not heard that pride comes before a fall?

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his voice low. He trails one finger along her shoulder, and Natasha closes her eyes. If he wants her, he should just come right out and say it. She's his prisoner, he's the king, and he has a sense of entitlement that will only encourage him into thinking that he has every right to her.

"Glad to be out of there," she replies, opening her eyes to meet his gaze. "They're driving me _insane_."

He nods, as though he expected this, and Natasha casts her eyes over him, biting her lip. He has a dagger secured in his belt, which seems to be his only weapon, and she makes a mental note of it as she returns her eyes to his. She wonders how much her grip will be affected by wet hands, which of them might be faster, and if she fails, a prospect which she wouldn't normally consider, but this is a _god_ she's dealing with, what the consequences will be for her.

He pushes up his sleeves and picks up the wash cloth, dunking it into the water with one hand and moving Natasha's hair aside with the other. He then proceeds to wash her shoulders, his touch gentle and delicate as the water trickles over her skin. She doesn't protest, and were he not her captor she might even enjoy it. She leans forward, allowing him greater access to her back, and he doesn't say a word as he washes her, moving the cloth in smooth, circular motions. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, steam filling her lungs. She knows she should feel guilty, allowing him to touch her, dragging the whole scenario out while the others are sat in their cells, twiddling their thumbs and likely exchanging bullshit theories about her.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can," he says, dipping the cloth into the water again before he resumes washing her.

"What's the deal with the food?" She thinks she knows the answer, but she'd rather hear what he has to say on the matter. She knows he won't be honest with her, but perhaps if she can discount what he says as a lie, that might leave her a little bit wiser about his plans and motives.

"All prisoners get bread and water. You can't come into my kingdom and expect a feast," he tells her. "That's just how it is."

Natasha frowns, ignoring the sensation of his warm breath fluttering over her skin. "But I _don't_ get bread and water. I get cheese, apples. Everybody else gets bread and water. I get special treatment."

"You do?" His hand pauses in his ministrations, his face close to hers.

"Yeah," she tells him, knowing full well that the news hasn't come as a surprise to him.

"Well perhaps one of the guards has taken a shine to you," he murmurs, and resumes his washing. "And has decided that it would be tragic if you wasted away on bread and water. You are, after all, a sight to behold."

"You think?" She turns towards him, their faces only a couple of inches apart. She can see every detail of his face, every eyelash, every pore, the shadows cast over his haughty features by the flickering firelight. He raises a finger, trailing it along her jaw, his lips curving into a smirk.

"It must be hell for you down there," he says softly, tilting her face to one side so he can press his lips against her jaw. She leans in to his touch, taking one hand out of the water and resting it on top of his, her fingers curling around his palm.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well," Loki says, smiling against her skin. "If the issue of food is concerning you, it can only be because the _others_ are concerned about it."

Natasha freezes and looks down, her hand slipping away from his.

"Have they turned on you already?" He grins, and this is confirmation enough to Natasha that no guard has taken a shine to her.

"Well, I'm not gonna lie," she sighs. "You're proving more tolerable company than they are at the moment."

"I'd take that as a compliment if it weren't so blatantly obvious." He runs his fingers slowly through her hair, his fingertips soft against her scalp, and Natasha inhales, moving closer to him, almost closing the gap between them. He brushes his lips against hers, testing the water, and when she moves even closer to him, he captures her lips without hesitation. Natasha pushes herself up with her elbow, deepening the kiss, one hand coming to rest on his neck, but before she can get too carried away, he breaks apart from her, his lips moving to the tender skin of her neck. Her eyelids flutter shut and she lets out a breathy sigh, her fingers tangling in his hair and gripping it tightly, holding him close as he grazes his teeth against her. She gasps involuntarily, and feels his lips curve into a smirk as the atmosphere becomes headier, steam catching in her lungs. She turns her head, tugging him up so she can meet his lips again, water sloshing as she moves. She trails her hand down to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, but his hand catches her wrist, his lips pulling away from her own.

"No."

Natasha tries to stifle her expression of genuine confusion, but fails miserably. Her head is all over the place, her skin burning from where he has touched her. "You don't wanna join me?" she asks, nodding towards the water.

"_No_," he says, as though that would be the most ridiculous idea he could have.

Natasha frowns, and sinks back into the bath until the water covers her shoulders.

"What's the matter?" he asks, sitting up straight. "Hasn't a man ever told you no?"

Natasha pulls a face. "Not really. But…I thought you wanted…" She shakes her head and draws her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. Her off the cuff plan has failed just as spectacularly as Clint's attempt at a breakfast escape, except this is rather less heroic.

He lowers himself down again so he can murmur into her ear. "I'm not an idiot," he says, his breath ghosting against her skin.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well," he says, his voice low and silky. "You're the kind of sadistic bitch who would have slit my throat before I came."

Natasha freezes, and he curls a tendril of her damp hair around his index finger.

"I wasn't planning on _killing_ you," she says, and it's true. She wasn't.

"Which is of course why you paid such close attention to my dagger," he tells her. "And why you were so desperate relieve me of my clothes and leave me unarmed. That innocent face might work on lowlier beings, Agent Romanov, but don't insult my intelligence by using it on me."

"Fine," she says, shrugging her shoulders, still very aware of the loose grip he has on her hair. "I _was_ planning on threatening you, but killing you would have made no sense. I wouldn't have made it out of this bathroom alive if I had."

He releases her hair and stands up, brushing his clothes down, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his dagger and giving it a squeeze, as though he needs reassurance that she hasn't slipped it out from under his nose. She turns around as he walks towards the cabinet, pulling out a towel and roughly drying his hands, then presses it to his face, soaking up the excess moisture that Natasha has left behind. She watches him, arms folded on the edge of the bath, and she bites her lip, wondering if it is too soon, or whether she is just plain stupid, for the request she wants to make.

"Can I have another bath tomorrow?" she blurts out.

"Why?" he asks, slinging the towel into the far corner of the room for somebody else to worry about. "Because you enjoyed this one so much?"

"_Because_ I like being clean," Natasha replies, her expression hardening. He narrows his eyes for a moment, scrutinising her, then glances down at her glistening body, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breast. Instinct tells her to lower herself into the bath, obscuring any show of skin from which he might glean some enjoyment, but her brain tells her to stay put, tilting her chin upwards just a little so the torchlight catches her at the most flattering angle.

"Yes, all right," he says. "Now get dressed. Sif and Fandral will be returning soon and they don't have all day to waste."

"Okay," she says, withdrawing to the other side of the bath and waiting for him to leave. He heads for the door, but pauses his hand on the knob, and turns back to her.

"Give my regards to your fellow detainees, won't you?" He smirks, and then disappears from the bathroom, leaving Natasha alone in the lukewarm water.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Meh, it's about 12 hours late but never mind. I finished chapter five at 6am so my sleeping pattern is totally fubar'd. Anyway, depending on how much I get done on six today, I may post tomorrow morning, or else it'll be tomorrow night.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Goodness," Sif breathes, when Natasha steps out into the corridor. She blinks, then turns to look at Fandral, who is surveying Natasha with great interest.

"You look quite lovely," he says with a smile. "Far too pretty to be kept in the dungeons all day."

"So help me escape?" Natasha asks hopefully, fiddling with her dress. The mirrors were steamed up in the bathroom, so she hasn't had a chance to see what it looks like yet, but it feels _good. _It's all silk and velvet and delicate embroidery, tiny hand-sewn stitches keeping everything together. The top part is tight fitting, comfortably so, while the skirt is long and flowing, trailing along the floor as she walks. Its colour is a deep forest green, and the significance isn't lost on Natasha, nor will it be lost on the others. He might as well have stamped her forehead with his signature, and finished it off with a _fuck you_ to the rest of them. Her hair is still damp, clinging to her neck, and she can feel her stomach sinking as they head back towards the dungeons. She doesn't want to go back. Not just because being kept in a prison cell is a drag, but she can't face the others, not in this dress, with its golden detailing and its luxurious layers of material, not with the knowledge that he has had his hands on her, seen more of her than any of them have. She doesn't think she'll be able to look them in the eye.

Using her body to her advantage is one thing, but for her self respect to remain undamaged, it has to _work_. Otherwise it's just pathetic.

They reach the door that leads down to the dungeons and Natasha hangs back, her stomach churning. Her skin feels hot, and acid rises in her throat. Sif turns to look at her, her brow creasing.

"You have to go back in," she says gently.

Natasha shakes her head. "No I don't want to," she chokes. "Please don't…" Her hands are shaking uncontrollably and she can't shut it down. All that waits down there for her is shame and accusations of betrayal. She never _asked_ for extra food, nor did she ask for a stupid dress, but she's been given them, and for some reason she is plagued with guilt. She can't face them, can't bear to have Clint glowering at her day in, day out, thinking the worst of her and not believing a word she says.

"But what's the matter?" Fandral asks, bowing his head to try and meet her eye. Natasha looks away, not wanting them to see her in this stupidly weak moment.

"_Fandral_," Sif says, as though he's being an idiot. "She's being held _prisoner_."

"But she was fine before!" Fandral argues.

Sif sighs in exasperation and Natasha turns away from them, covering her face with her hands as she tries to get her head together. Now is _not_ the time to fall apart. She's just bargained her way into getting out of her cell for an hour each day, if she falls apart now, she will fall apart every time she has to return to the dungeons, and she won't allow herself to slip into such a self-destructive habit. She's _better than that_.

"Natasha?"

She feels the need to justify herself, to make sure they realise that this isn't some stupid little panic attack because of a _cell_. It's much _much_ more than that.

"They think I'm gonna go bad again, I know it. I was bad before but then I was _good_, and I've been good ever since and I'm _still good_." She pauses, taking a deep breath, which catches in her throat. She coughs, pressing a hand to her chest as she tries to put her words into an intelligible order. "He's playing these stupid little games, turning them all against me and it's _working_. It's been so fucking _easy_ and he's going to keep pushing and pushing and if I walk in there dressed like _this_," she grabs a fistful of her skirt and tugs at it. "They're gonna think the worst and think that I only care about getting _myself_ home, and I _don't_. I can't…I can't _fucking_ do this!" She punches the wall, but all she achieves is a grazed set of knuckles and a ton of pain, but the pain is good, and it helps her concentrate.

"He'll get bored," Sif tells her gently. "He will."

"After he's broken every single one of us," Natasha replies darkly. She takes a steadying breath and closes her eyes. She shouldn't care what they think of her, she's never cared what anybody thinks of her, but after everything they went through during New York, she would have hoped that even if they didn't _like_ one another, they would at least _trust_ one another.

"Look," Sif says firmly. "You have to go back in there. You have no choice in that. What you _do _have a choice in is whether you walk back in there, with your head held high because you've done _nothing wrong_, or go back in there feeling ashamed of yourself because that's how they've _made _you feel. Just because they think you have something to be ashamed of, it doesn't mean that you do."

Natasha forces all emotion out of her mind, focusing instead on her throbbing knuckles, and soon enough, her hands are steady as a rock. She reaches out for the door knob herself, and leads the way back down the stairs.

She doesn't allow her confidence to falter when she enters the dungeons, and she waits patiently while Fandral unlocks her cell, then steps inside without complaint. Sif smiles briefly at her, her mood entirely different now they're below ground, and Natasha nods at her as the glass slides shut, sealing her in for another day.

"Look who's all pretty as a princess," Clint sneers.

Fandral turns, and Natasha thinks for a moment that he might say something, but Sif grabs him by the arm, pulling him from the dungeons before they have to witness any more discord.

"They're fresh outta jeans," Natasha replies coolly.

"You look very nice," Steve says quickly, just as Clint opens his mouth to send an acidic retort in Natasha's direction. He stops, the words never leaving his mouth, then shakes his head, retreating to the corner of his cell and slumping down, legs crossed, head resting back against the wall. Natasha sits down too, kicking off her shoes and drawing her knees up, arms resting atop them as she stares glumly at the wall.

"Nobody gonna point out that that was one _hell_ of a long shower?"

"Hawkeye, there aren't any clocks in here, you can't know…this place messes with your head," Bruce says, glancing over to Natasha. He's been doing well, considering the amount of tension that is tainting the place, and she hasn't once been worried that he might lose it and transform. Perhaps the threat of losing his hands is enough to keep him level-headed.

"Bullshit," Clint says in response. "She's been gone for ages."

"Yeah but girls always take forever," Jane chimes in. "That's just how it is."

Clint sends a filthy look over towards Jane's cell, but she doesn't seem to be bothered by it.

"Come on, it's just a shower," she says, and Natasha can hear the nervous smile in her voice. "It's no big deal."

"And a dress," Clint tells her. "A nice little green and gold dress. I wonder who _else_ wears green and gold?"

"What was I _supposed_ to do? Come back _naked_? And the _reason_ I was gone so long was because it was a bath. _Not_ a shower."

"You said shower," Clint argues. "You can't even keep your bullshit lies straight..."

"I _asked_ them for a shower. I was _given_ a bath."

"Did you see him?" Tony asks, eyeing her curiously. "Loki? Did you see him?"

"Yeah," Natasha says, knowing it will only be worse if she lies. It will come out of the woodwork at some point and cause her a whole world of trouble.

"So did you speak to him?" Steve asks, his interest piquing. Even Bruce sits up straighter, shuffling closer to the glass so he can have a better view of her. It's his dark eyes, more than anyone else's, that will be able to see through her the soonest. She knows that, and so she steels herself, slowly letting each part of her poker face slide into play - the relaxed brow, the slack lips, the steady gaze of her eyes.

"Yeah, but it wasn't really…" She doesn't know what to tell them, because of the few words exchanged, none of them were remotely noteworthy.

"Wasn't really what?" Bruce asks.

Natasha shrugs. "Nothing happened."

"We didn't ask you if anything happened," Tony says, his voice suddenly cold. "We asked you what was said."

Natasha sighs in frustration. "He was just being an _asshole_," she says exasperatedly. "Same old shit, nothing new."

"Okay," Tony says, nodding, though there is something in his tone that Natasha doesn't like. "So next question: what _happened_?"

"I already told you," Natasha replies. "_Nothing_."

"Yeah, but this _nothing_ is clearly playing on your mind, so spill."

Natasha sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She will _not_ get worked up over this. She won't lose her temper, even if she is furious with herself for making such a stupid slip up. The fact is, she can't leave that scene in the bathroom behind her. It lingers around like a bad smell, reminding her of her failure, of how he won, so completely and utterly, and sent her back to her cell with her tail between her legs. The dress is a constant reminder that she is playing his game now, not her own, and that it's his rules they'll be adhering to.

"Natasha?" Steve's soft voice breaks into her thoughts and she looks up. "You okay?"

"I'm _fine_," she says impatiently. She glances across to Clint, his gaze fixed on her, watching her every move, and she scowls in his direction.

"She's lying," Clint says, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Lying through her fucking _teeth_."

"Natasha, did he threaten you?" Thor joins the interrogation, though his tone is far less judgemental. She can't see him, so she can't read his expression, but she hopes that he, at least, isn't sending death glares in her direction.

"No," she replies. "He didn't threaten me."

"Has he sworn you to silence?"

"_No_," she tells him, her patience dwindling. "It was nothing, I don't even - "

"Yeah, stop trying to make excuses for her Thor, she knows exactly what she's doing."

"Shut _up_, Clint."

"And I might remind _you_, Agent Barton, that I know exactly what my brother is _like_."

"As do _I_," Clint spits, jumping to his feet and crossing to the front of his cell so he can glare at Thor now. "I've had him inside my head, in case you'd forgotten. And I know that she _hasn't_ been compromised. She's acting of her own accord, just like she always does."

"Oh is that a _crime_ now?" Natasha argues. "Being in control of my own brain?"

Clint shakes his head and aims a kick at the wall, skulking around, his expression surly. "Just stop playing innocent," he mutters. "We're not stupid."

"I haven't _done_ anything," she tells him, her heart pumping in her chest as her anger builds, threatening to spill over.

"So why is it only _you_ that's getting special treatment? Why does _Princess Natasha_ get all the food, a nice hot bath and pretty dress?"

"I _asked_ for it. If you want a bath maybe you should fucking well _ask_ instead of attacking the guards!"

"Yeah, okay, _I'm_ the one at fault here. As far as I can see, I'm the only one who's actually _trying_ to get out."

"You're full of _shit_," Natasha says, shaking her head in disbelief. One half assed attempt at barging his way past the guards does _not_ constitute a viable, helpful plan. At least her own attempt, crude though it may have been, has led to her being permitted to leave her cell for an hour a day for as long as they're here. And, if she can win Loki over in small ways, she might be able to talk their way out of there. _All of them_. Though at the moment, she's not feeling particularly generous and has half a mind to ask him to let her go back to Earth alone.

"_I'm _full of shit…" Clint mutters, shaking his head and pacing around his cell.

The argument dies down, though an unpleasant atmosphere still hangs in the air like a dark rain cloud, threatening to break at any moment. Natasha can feel eyes on her, but she doesn't look up to see who they belong to. She supposes that Clint, Steve, Tony and Bruce are all looking at her, while Thor and Jane remain quiet in the adjacent cells. She knows when she leaves for her bath tomorrow there'll be uproar, and if they weren't all talking shit behind her back today, then they most certainly will tomorrow. It's not fair, and she knows it's a childish notion to cling to expectations of fairness, especially when she's stuck in a dungeon prison on an alien world, but she doesn't understand why it has to be _her_ that they turn on. Is Loki really so bitter about their encounter on the helicarrier that he wishes to destroy her reputation, even when she's done nothing wrong? She knows, better than anyone, how being locked up can mess with your head, how the ache in your belly can spread like a poison to your brain, and how staring at the same blank walls day in, day out, lets your imagination run riot, concocting darker versions of reality and mistaking them for the truth.

She doesn't know how long she's been back in her cell for, but what she does know is that she is desperate for the day to pass, so she can escape to the peace of the bathroom and its non-judgemental tranquility.

* * *

"Let's play a game, shall we?" Loki says, his hands clasped together in front of him as he strolls slowly through the dungeon, grinning broadly. "Let's play, if the kind hearted king - " he presses a hand flat against his chest and spins around on his heel, looking at each of them in turn, a mocking smile painted across his lips. " - were to let one of you go, which of you would it be?"

"Bruce," Tony says simply. "So he can give you the pounding you deserve."

"_Not_ Bruce," Loki says, raising one finger as he turns to address Tony.

"Release Jane," Thor says quietly. "She had no part in your downfall on Midgard. She has done nothing to hurt you."

"_What_?" Jane pipes up. "You think you can just _send me away_? I'm not going _anywhere_ until we're _all_ out of here. You can't just send me back to Earth like I'm a good little human. No _way_."

Natasha's lips curve into a brief smile, but it fades quickly.

"I would feel better if you were on Midgard," Thor tells Jane. "Away from all of this."

Loki's smirk is growing broader by the minute, his eyes alight with mischief as they flick between Jane and Thor, as though watching a tennis match.

"Well I _wouldn't_," Jane argues. "I'm not leaving anybody behind. I'm not leaving _you_."

Thor sighs, and there is a dense thud. Natasha thinks he may well have smacked his head against the wall in frustration. Apparently, he has run out of entertainment value, because Loki turns away from him, gracing Steve with his attention instead.

"What about you, Captain? Who would _you_ choose?"

"Let the ladies go," Steve says with a shrug. "That would be the decent thing to do."

Natasha rolls her eyes. Releasing Jane, she gets. She's only involved in this because of Thor, not because she participated in the smack down that ended Loki's dreams of world domination. She's just along for the ride as it were. She, on the other hand, doesn't need releasing any more than the others. In fact, she's less of a priority, seeing as she's being considerably well looked after, given the circumstances.

"Release Natasha?" Loki asks, raising an eyebrow. It is the first time he has addressed her by her first name, and Natasha narrows her eyes at him. She knows exactly what kind of game he's playing, and she is _not_ going to cooperate. "Why would I want to do that? I rather like having her in captivity."

He turns again, this time to Clint, but Natasha will not watch the exchange. She can feel Clint's glare burning into her, and she stares determinedly ahead, ignoring him. She doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to be exposed to his altered opinion of her, written all over his face.

"What about you, Agent Barton? Who would you have me release?"

"I'd have you go fuck yourself," Clint retorts. Tony sniggers, and it even raises a smile from Bruce, but Steve sighs and starts pacing around his cell, occasionally running his hand through his hair and giving it a frustrated ruffle.

"Charming," Loki says, though he is completely unaffected by Clint's vitriol.

"Loki?"

Loki strolls to the other end of the dungeon to speak to Jane, his playful expression gone, replaced with one of curiosity and suspicion.

"I just wanted to say," she says, though Natasha has to concentrate to hear her words, because she's not shouting, she's not addressing everybody, just him. "You know, thanks for saving my life. Before. I never really got the chance to say it…but thanks."

Loki doesn't say anything, and Natasha shuffles forward to the front of her cell to get a better view of him. His brow is creased into a frown, and he's surveying Jane as though she is a puzzle that needs to be solved. Natasha can't work out if Jane's trying to play the good guy, or whether she's genuinely grateful, or perhaps it's a mixture of both and she's choosing the opportune moment to voice her gratitude. Whichever it is, Natasha thinks that SHIELD may have lost out on a valuable asset, the day Jane Foster decided to pursue science instead of espionage.

"You're welcome," he says at last. "But a display of gratitude will not get you out of this cell, you understand?"

"I know _that_," Jane says obviously. "But I just wanted to say thanks, 'cause otherwise I'd be…you know."

"Yes," Loki says. "I _do _know."

"Right," Jane says uncertainly, and Loki turns away, but before he can take a step, Jane calls after him. "I was wondering," she says, voice raised with a hint of urgency to it. "Could I maybe take a bath? I mean, you let Natasha out and I'm feeling pretty gross to be honest…"

Loki inhales deeply, and makes a show of considering her request. He frowns, presses his lips together, and looks her up and down, as though trying to gauge whether she's grimy enough to warrant a trip to the bathroom.

"Fine," he says at last, and he clicks his fingers, drawing the attention of a guard. "Take her to get cleaned up."

The guard nods, unlocks the cell, and Jane steps out, side stepping past Loki, who catches her by the upper arm and hauls her back.

"No misbehaving now," he says silkily. "Or the others will suffer."

Jane nods, and after a moment, Loki releases her, his eyes fixed on her as she hurries towards the exit with the guard. As she passes Natasha's cell, she raises her eyebrows at her, and Natasha forces out a small smile of acknowledgement. Finally she's not the only one being favoured. Not that she wants any of the bitter comments to be diverted in Jane's direction, of course, but maybe the fact that she's not the only one will cool things down a little.

"Can I get a bath too?" Tony asks, though Natasha knows the answer as soon as the words tumble from his mouth.

"_No_," Loki sniggers. "Why would I ever permit that?"

"Well you let the ladies get clean," Tony says with a shrug. "I mean, it's pretty sexist if you don't let us gentlemen scrub ourselves up."

"You're mistaking me for somebody who _cares_ about such things. No. You cannot _scrub yourselves up_."

"Why not?" Tony demands, hands pressed against the glass, his brow creased in disappointment.

"Because if Natasha or Jane are going to escape, they're going to use their brains to do it. The rest of you, however, will try and use brute force. I'm not going to let you make a mess of my palace during your blundering bids for freedom."

Tony doesn't say anything, and apparently Loki takes this as a victory, because he turns away, a smirk on his face.

"You didn't make any mess during your attempt this afternoon, did you Natasha?"

She can feel the atmosphere sharpen at his words, all eyes on her, ears pricked to hear every detail of the conversation. She doesn't respond, just merely glances up at him and shrugs, knowing that anything she says will only make it worse. He can only play with silence so much before he gets bored, but if she tries to deny it, or worse admits it, he will twist her words until she is considered an even greater enemy than he is.

"Have you gone shy?" he asks, a smirk spreading across his lips as he approaches her cell. She doesn't acknowledge him, but he is apparently unperturbed. "You don't look very comfortable down there," he says with a frown, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But," he says, dropping his hand and taking a deep breath. "I have things I need to be getting on with, you know," he glances back to Thor's cell, "being King is _such_ an inconvenience."

"Funny, brother," Thor replies. "I'm sure your kingdom is desperately awaiting your return."

"You have _no_ idea…" Loki tells him darkly, then disappears up the stone staircase, his green cape billowing behind him until the hem of it disappears from sight and the doors slam behind him.

It's over an hour later, long after Jane has returned, fresh faced, clean clothed, and considerably more cheerful than the rest of them, when half a dozen guards enter the dungeons, carrying a large, carved wooden sleigh bed between them. Natasha's eyes widen as her cell is unlocked and the glass slides back far enough for them to fit it through the gap. They carry it in, setting it down with the headboard against the wall, before they file out, the glass sealing shut once more.

She can't believe it. Well, she _can_. She should have expected it, but she hadn't thought he would have gone to such an effort just to piss everybody else off. The bed is layered with soft, embroidered quilts, plump cushions and pillows propped against the headboard. First instinct is to jump onto it, to curl up under the quilt and get a proper night's rest after so little sleep. But then she catches sight of Clint's expression. He's furious, and when she glances across, Tony isn't bothering to hide his displeasure. Even Bruce is looking at her strangely, something in his eyes that she doesn't recognise.

Between the three of them (only Steve, out of those in the cells opposite, seems to be at ease with this most recent development) they are managing to send an awful lot of daggers in her direction. In short, if looks could kill, right now, she'd be six feet under.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Thanks for your reviews ladies and gents. Very much spur me on and help this whole daily updating shizzle that I've got going on. I'm quite insane, I realise that. But never mind.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"You didn't sleep in the bed," he says.

Natasha pauses, shampoo trickling into her palm from the open neck of the dome bottomed bottle. When she has a sufficient amount pooled in her hand, she replaces the bottle on the shelf.

"Says who?"

"Says the crick in your neck," he replies.

She frowns, ignoring him as she begins to rub the shampoo into her hair, her back towards him. His mentioning it has only brought the ache to the surface, and she tries to stretch it out gently, but the muscles are stiff and uncooperative. She'd barely been in the bath five minutes before he'd entered, sitting down on the chair by the towel cabinet without announcing his presence at all. She suspects that this will become something of a pattern, and if he wants to engage in some silly little power play, then she's not going to get upset about it. She would have thought, however, that a king would have more interesting things to be doing than watching female prisoners take a bath. She supposes that Jane must have gotten off lightly, because she hadn't complained about any invasions of privacy upon her return. On the contrary she had apologised profusely to the others while trying to coax some conversation out of Natasha about all the potions and creams in the bottles, and how the bath salts had smelled of perfectly ripe peaches. Perhaps Loki had respected the fact that she's Thor's girlfriend, and still has some smidgen of decency, or perhaps he simply respects Jane. Natasha knows that he respects, her, but it is in a far more grudging way, a way where he apparently needs to assert his superiority over her, just to remind her that the one occasion on which she did beat him has not set the bar for their relationship.

Natasha submerges herself in the water, running her fingers through her hair to rinse out the shampoo. When she surfaces, Loki is on his feet, slowly approaching the edge of the bath. He sits down on the floor behind her, and Natasha wrings out the excess water in her hair.

"Why are you here?" she asks eventually, sick of the silence.

"You're beautiful," he tells her, his voice low and gentle. "A force to be reckoned with, undoubtedly, but you are _very _beautiful."

"That doesn't really answer my question," Natasha replies, and she turns around, her hair clinging to her neck and shoulders. She inhales deeply, the steam filling her lungs and leaving her feeling sleepy.

"Well…" he says slowly, tracing one long, pale finger along the ridge of the bath. "You're beautiful, wet, _and_ naked. Why would I be anywhere else?"

Natasha sighs and turns away from him, but he reaches out, taking her by the shoulder and pulling her closer to him. She stares resolutely at the far wall however, ignoring him as he brushes his thumb along her jaw.

"So are you actually gonna let us go at some point? Or are you just going to keep us here forever?"

Loki lets out a breath of laughter, cool against her moist skin. "I haven't decided," he murmurs. "I might keep you."

"But the others?" Natasha asks, turning her head just a little, leaning into his touch. "You'll release them?"

"Well let's not be _hasty_," he says, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. She can sense how close he is, his lips only millimetres from her ear. "But if you think you can bargain for their release…"

"I might have something valuable to offer," she says softly, and she twists around fully now, gazing up at him steadily, trying to detect a glimmer of curiosity at her suggestion.

"Such as?"

She shrugs. "I don't know," she tells him, glancing down at the water. "Name your price."

"Oh _my_…" He looks towards the ceiling, as though an answer will be written there for him, and scrapes his teeth against his lower lip while he thinks. He looks back down at her, his eyes taking in every inch of her body, lips curving into a smirk when his gaze reaches the water. "I'm quite happy with things the way they are."

"Oh come on," Natasha replies, smiling coyly. She moves closer to him and rests her arms on the edge of the bath, raising herself out of the water just enough so his eyes can linger on the smooth curve of her spine. "You _always_ want more."

"Perhaps," he says, then reaches his hand down into the bath and splashes her, saturating her hair and covering one side of her face with water. He stands up and moves back over to the cabinet, pulling out a towel and drying himself. He doesn't say another word before he leaves, though he does look over his shoulder before the door closes with a heavy thud. She'll be seeing that smirk in her dreams soon, she knows it, and she wonders just how long it'll be before she actually manages to make it to the negotiation stage.

She has a horrible feeling that she'll have to do a lot better than she has so far, and that she'll be walking a fine line between getting them home and fucking things up entirely every time she ventures into this bathroom.

* * *

She sits behind the bed, mostly so she doesn't have to look at the others, but partly so she doesn't have to deal with Clint's expression of disgust. He hasn't said a word to Jane on the matter of her bath, but Jane is on bread and water like the rest of them, she's part of the _gang_. Natasha is decidedly _not_. While she is bitter about the situation, she is trying to cling to the knowledge that if the tables were turned, she too would be harbouring bitter thoughts, her paranoia cranked up to eleven. It's difficult though, when she knows there is nothing in it, when she knows that all she's trying to do is win Loki over, at least to the point where he'd be willing to consider letting them all go. If she just huffed and puffed, stamping her feet, and threw dirty looks to the guards when they brought her food, then he wouldn't even entertain the idea of conversing with her. At least she's opened up a dialogue, even if the subject is way off on the horizon and she has to be naked before he'll consider her words worth hearing.

She's not the only one to have sunk into silence however. Steve barely says a single word, only opening his mouth when he's been directly addressed. She wonders if his patience is wearing thin with the others and he's trying to keep himself from saying anything that might stoke the fire, but really, when she looks at him, he just seems resigned to the fact that he's going to be spending a long long time in these dungeons.

Loki likes coming to shake things up. When she hears his footsteps descend the stairs, dread floods through her. She can handle him in the privacy of the bathroom, away from suspicious eyes, but in front of everyone, where he might drop a seemingly innocent phrase that'll leave her neck deep in shit from the others, she doesn't even want to see him. She knows he will be stirring things up, making them worse, and so she remains behind the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees as she counts the seconds, waiting for him to get this over and done with.

"How are we today?" he asks, strolling lazily along the walkway between the two rows of cells. He looks at each of them in turn, and when he gets to the end, he spins on his heel and heads back towards Natasha's end. He meets her eyes, his gaze burning her, and she holds it, despite wanting to shrink even further into the corner. His question is greeted by a stony silence and Natasha knows that that will only cause him to antagonise them more.

"Ah," he says. "I see. All quiet down in the dungeons. Have you all fallen out with each other? Or is it just me? I bet you're having a whale of a time when I'm not here. This is all just for show, isn't it?" He grins maliciously, his eyes glinting, and Natasha hears Clint crack his knuckles. She looks up to see his fists balled tightly, his near permanent scowl even more prominent than usual, his chest heaving as he breathes in and out quickly. His temper is about to bubble over and Natasha meets his eyes, minutely shaking her head. It's not worth it, and she hopes that he realises that.

Apparently he doesn't however, because he pushes himself up from the floor and strides towards the glass. "What do you want from us?" he growls, his shoulders squared. He's ready for a fight, and he's going to get one, Natasha knows it. But it's not the kind of fight he's looking for.

"Well it's quite simple," Loki explains as he approaches Clint's cell. "You trespassed in my kingdom. You committed a criminal offence. You have been _imprisoned_ as a punishment for that criminal offence. Do you need me to go through it one more time? Are you still having trouble with your head?"

Clint pounds his fists against the glass, but it doesn't even crack. Loki lets out a throaty chuckle, but he's the only one in the dungeons showing any sign of amusement.

"It's not that simple," Clint argues, his balled fist still resting against the glass. "Because if it were that simple, you wouldn't be giving all this shit to Romanov." He gestures towards the bed, to her discarded plate which still has the abandoned remnants of her lunch on it.

"Oh she's _Romanov_ now, is she?" Loki asks, looking between them. "She's been demoted?"

It hurts, more than the glares, more than the insults, and more than anything else he has thrown at her. She can't remember the last time he called her 'Romanov'. It feels as though she might as well be a stranger to him, someone he doesn't give a single damn about. If there weren't two panels of glass separating them, she would probably send her fist flying into his jaw, just to try and inflict a similar level of pain to him as he has to her.

"You didn't say what the deal was," Clint replies coldly. "Enough bullshit. What's _really_ going on here?"

Loki paces slowly in front of Clint's cell, his lips pressed together, eyes staring at the ground as he considers his answer. "What's _really going on_…" he repeats. "Hmm…"

Natasha is curious as to what his answer will be, but at the same time she dreads it. It could go one of two ways, either a hint of honesty that will give her something to think on for the next few hours, something to use when she next meets with him, or, he could make the jealousy situation a hell of a lot worse. She'd rather it were the former, but when he pauses in his pacing and sends a brief grin in her direction before he turns back to Clint, she knows she's going to have no such luck.

"Natasha is getting _nice things_," he begins, his explanation slow and clear, as if he were speaking to a child. "Because she is my _favourite_."

Clint glances over at her, then back to Loki. "Why's she your favourite?"

"Reasons," Loki says simply, smiling smugly. "Of which you'd be happier knowing nothing of."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Clint growls, squeezing his fist, knuckles bulging under his skin.

"Well they say ignorance is bliss…" Loki replies. "I'm surprised you're not the happiest man in the universe if that's the case…"

Clint shakes his head and turns his back on Loki, retreating to the corner of his cell and sitting down on the floor.

"How fast even the firmest of friendships can fracture," Loki says, feigning sadness. "But I suppose it's best that you all see each other for who you truly are, don't you agree?"

Nobody replies, and so he heaves an exaggerated sigh then heads for the stairs, the sound of his footsteps disappearing after the door swings shut behind him.

"So how come you're his favourite?" Tony asks. There is an unfamiliar coolness to his tone which Natasha tries not to dwell on. "What are his _reasons_?"

Before Natasha can answer, Clint pipes up. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me," Tony replies, his gaze still fixed on Natasha. "Spill."

"You don't think she's _really _going for a bath every day, do you?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and doesn't even bother trying to argue with him. She knows she won't change his mind, and if it makes him happy to speculate, then so be it. Even if he's talking total shit.

"She might."

Clint laughs bitterly. "No," he says. "It's clear she's come to an _arrangement_ with Loki. Why d'you think he sent her the bed? He wants her _well rested_."

Natasha can't get over how ridiculous his claims are. _Well rested_? Is that what it's come down to? Loki wants her energy levels up so she'll be a satisfactory fuck? He's not nearly as simple as that, and it's a shame, because if she _could_ fuck her way out of here, she damn well _would_. It's a small price to pay for freedom, and her body has been used and abused far too many times for her to give a fuck about who she uses it on these days. If the reward is great enough, she can be persuaded to go ahead with it.

"Don't you think that's what he _wants_ you to believe?" Steve says. He sounds tired, fed up of the bickering, the bitterness, and yet here he is, jumping to her defence, despite all evidence pointing to the idea that she doesn't deserve defending.

"I'm yet to hear her say otherwise," Clint retorts.

"Maybe she's just done with you taking things out on her. When are you gonna realise that this _isn't_ her fault?"

"I never said - "

"You don't have to _say_," Steve snaps. "You've been enough of a jerk that it's obvious that that's how you feel. You wanna blame someone and it's easiest to blame _her_. You ever think he might be _hurting _her? You ever think she might be keeping quiet for all our sakes? Or if something _is _happening, maybe she doesn't wanna damn well _talk about it_?"

"If it's _just_ a bath - " Clint argues, but Steve cuts him off.

"Then there's no more to say on the matter, _is there_?"

Clint picks up his lunch tray and launches it across his cell. It crashes into the glass and falls to the floor with a clatter, his cup rolling across the floor, the last few drops of water trickling over the rim. He glares across at her, and Natasha ignores him.

She's not sure how much more of this she can take.

* * *

"Any reason you're not using the bed?"

Natasha looks up, and Steve is sitting at the front of his cell, one shoulder resting against the glass as he sips his water. She shrugs, and looks back down at her dinner, a pang of guilt shooting through her. She's had a warm chicken leg added to her meal today, and with that, as well as the selection of cold meats, cheeses, bread, fruit and salad, she's getting full despite having only eaten half of what's on offer.

"She's being a martyr," Clint says. He's laying on his back, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at the ceiling. "She's trying to convince us that she's still one of us. That's she's not fucking us over for her own advantage every time she gets to leave that damn cell."

"If it's there, I don't see any point in you _not _using it," Steve says, ignoring Clint completely as he tears up the last of his bread into bite sized pieces. "In the same way I don't begrudge you eating the food. It's there, so it's stupid not to make the most of it."

Natasha doesn't say anything, but Steve's words only make her feel worse about the food situation, her stomach churning as it tries to digest her dinner. Everybody's lost weight except her, and she finds it difficult to look at them, because she can't see them without noticing how gaunt they look, how pale, and how unhealthy they are, even though they try to keep it under wraps because they're all too god damn proud to let it show.

"When he said you were his favourite," Steve continues, not giving up on the conversation. "What did he mean by that?"

Natasha exhales softly, trying to think of an answer that fulfils the necessary criteria of being both true _and_ believable. It's not as easy as she would have hoped.

"You don't have to say if you don't want to," Steve says quickly. "Just, you know, if you _wanted_ to talk about it. You can."

She's very aware that Tony and Bruce are watching her, hanging on Steve's every word, waiting for her answer, and when she looks across at Clint she sees that his breathing has changed. It's slower, shallower, and she knows that even though he has his eyes closed, he is trying to pick up every detail he can.

"He just decided I was," Natasha says lamely. "He's playing games."

Steve nods.

"This _isn't_ a game," Thor says gruffly from the next cell.

"To him it is," Natasha replies, feeling a little of the tension leave her as she speaks. With every word that leaves her mouth, it feels like another brick in her defences against the judgemental gazes. "He's having fun with this, haven't you noticed?"

"But why did he just _decide_ you were his favourite?" Bruce asks. "I mean, you don't just _decide_ things like that. He didn't draw your name out of a hat."

Natasha knows why she's his favourite. They're getting things the wrong way round however. They're assuming that she's permitted to take daily baths because she's his favourite, when really, she's his favourite _because_ she takes daily baths. And more than that, she doesn't get upset or anxious about him sitting there watching her. It's annoying, because she'd rather have some peace and quiet, relax on her own and breath in the steam, making the most of her time away from the dungeons. But no, the simple fact is, he feels powerful because he can watch her bathe, and the more carnal part of him is satisfied with what he gets to see. She's not prepared to admit that to them however, because she knows they'd never believe he's just simply _watching_ her, but Loki understands, better than a lot of men she's dealt with, that to give in to lust is to make yourself vulnerable. He would consider it an extreme failure if she ever managed to coax him into that bath, and as such, he maintains his distance, and if he does venture close, it always results in him leaving abruptly, as though he thinks fresh air will cure him of all desire.

"I don't know," she lies at last. "He's insane. I can't figure him out."

Nobody has anything to say to that, and so they sit in silence for the last couple of hours before the lights are shut off, leaving them in pitch black. Natasha curls up against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, and tries not to think about the ache in her bones from too many nights sleeping on this hard, unforgiving floor. Eventually she manages to drift off into an uneasy sleep, punctuated with dreams about accusations of betrayal, her friends turning their backs on her, and Clint, pulling back the string on his bow, arrow aiming at her heart.

She doesn't open her eyes when she awakes. She is warm and comfortable, and she rolls over, inhaling deeply. She pulls the quilt up over her shoulders and snuggles deeper into it. It's a few seconds before she realises exactly what's amiss with the situation, and she sits bolt upright, opening her eyes and looking around. She's in the bed, the pillows in disarray from her night time fidgeting. She doesn't remember waking up, nor does she recall making the decision to give in and move to the bed.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Tony says. "Or should I say, good afternoon?"

Natasha blinks in confusion, then looks down at the floor by the glass panel. Two trays are there, one bearing breakfast, the other lunch.

"_Somebody_ isn't having trouble sleeping at night," Clint says sarcastically.

Natasha looks towards Steve, but he's staring down at the floor, tracing imaginary patterns with his index finger. She needs his reassurance right now that things are okay, because she can honestly say that she doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

It doesn't come however, and all she can do is clamber off of the bed and settle herself down in the corner, paranoia eating away at her head and her heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Gooooood evening. Long time no see. I updated the beast (the Interloper) at the weekend, and have since been struck down by the cold that never really went away. I don't feel like I'm going to be particularly _well_ any time soon so updates may be slightly erratic for the next few chapters, but you'll have to bear with us on that one.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's confused. Worse than that, she's not sure she can trust her own memory. She is certain that she didn't get into the bed, doesn't even remember waking up at all in the night. And yet, somehow, she ended up tucked under the covers, snuggled into the pillows and sleeping all the way through to the afternoon. She's disappointed in herself, even though she can't remember her wrongdoing. The situation has only worsened, and even Steve is being a little frosty with her. She knows it's not because she slept in the bed, it's because she had refused, while they could see her, to take advantage of her favouritism, and as soon as the lights were out she had gone back on that and crawled into bed as soon as they couldn't see her. She understands completely, but her stress levels have heightened now that her only ally has fallen silent. She knows that Thor and Jane are staying out of things, keeping quiet for the most part, but the fact that she can't see them on top of their silence means that she hardly notices their presence at all.

By the time the guards come to collect her to escort her to her bath, she is nearly tearing her hair out, anxious to get out of her cell and try and get her head straight. She doesn't waste any time in stripping off and climbing down the steps into the water, and she leans her head back against the edge of the bath, closes her eyes and tries to calm herself down. She can deal with the captivity. She can deal with his games. What she can't deal with is not being able to trust her own head. She can't imagine that she would ever have been so tired or so achey that she would have climbed into the bed without question. It would have taken far more than that for her to have given in. She would have had to have been desperate, and last night, she was _not_ desperate.

He arrives just as she's starting to calm down, her breathing becoming steadier, even though she is no closer to understanding what exactly happened last night. He sits down in his chair, doesn't say a word in greeting, and Natasha continues as though she hasn't noticed him. She'll wait for him to make first contact, as she always does, because she doesn't want to choose the conversation subject. She'd much rather he leads, because anything she chooses to say she knows will be twisted and held against her. Silence is golden, after all.

"Sleep well?" he asks eventually.

Natasha frowns. She doesn't like it when he knows what's going on without being in the dungeons. "Fine," she answers coolly.

"The guards said you missed breakfast. You must have been very comfortable."

Her shoulders stiffen, her suspicion reaching an all time high. The more he speaks, the more she is certain that he had something to do with her waking up in that bed. The idea calms her in that it means that she doesn't have any gaping blanks in her memory, but at the same time, if he's messing with her in her sleep, that's a whole new can of worms that she needs to worry about. She can't have been in a deep sleep, it's not possible to sleep deeply on that floor, so he must have done something to her. He _must_ have.

"Did you have somebody move me last night?" she asks, deciding it's best to come straight out and say it. He obviously wants to talk about it, so she indulges him.

"No," he replies. "I didn't."

Natasha turns to face him for the first time. He's smirking at her, lounged in his chair, his shirt loose, leaning the side of his face against his hand. He dresses down to come here, she knows. She's not sure it's entirely due to the sweltering temperatures in the bathroom either. He ditches all of his leather, the coat, the tight fitting top underneath, and today he has even traded his heavy leather boots for a pair of lighter, roomier, hand-stitched shoes. His hair, usually slicked back tends to fall into disarray minutes after being exposed to the steam. It becomes thicker, wavier, and Natasha imagines it takes him a considerable amount of time to transform himself back into his usual regal self.

"So who moved me then? Because I sure as hell didn't get into that bed myself."

"Didn't you?" He pulls a face, as though her statement is a curious and quirky mystery that isn't to be dwelled upon. "How strange."

"Did _you_ move me?" she asks, arching one eyebrow at him.

"Don't you think I have better things to be doing than creeping into your cell in the dead of night?"

"Not really," Natasha replies, and his lips twitch at the corners. "I mean, I know you're _really busy_ being King, but if you can make time to come and watch me bath…"

"The alternative is to go downstairs and poke the angriest one of your friends with a stick. The view's far better here."

"I'm sure it is," Natasha says, turning away again. She doesn't really know what's involved with ruling an entire kingdom, but surely there are more pressing matters he has to attend to. Or perhaps it is the king's privilege to delegate to everybody else and rile up the prisoners once a day to ease the boredom.

They fall into silence again, and Natasha is now certain that Loki had something to do with her mysterious change of sleeping location last night. She hopes that his only motivation was to antagonise things with the others even more than he already has, because if that's the case, then she's got her head around everything and doesn't need to worry about it too much, providing she continues to sleep in the bed and doesn't give him cause to pay her another visit during the night.

The fact that she didn't wake up however still nags at her, and for the first time, she thinks that her increased amounts of food may not just be to upset everybody else. There is an unpleasant stench of Hansel and Gretel about the whole thing, now that she thinks about it properly, and Loki is _not_ someone whose motives you can make assumptions about.

"Have you been poisoning my food?" she asks slowly. For the first time since they've started their bath time rendezvous, she feels vulnerable. Worse than that, she feels _stupid_.

"Poison?" he asks, and she hears him get to his feet, slowly walking over to her before he sits down at the bath's edge. "Why would I poison you?"

"Why would you keep us in the dungeons?" Natasha counters, shrugging her shoulders and turning around.

"Because it's _funny_," he says, as though it were obvious. "Poisoning you wouldn't be funny." He reaches out and takes her by the chin, stroking his thumb gently across her lower lip. "Vomiting and death are _not_ beautiful."

"And my sole purpose is to be beautiful for your benefit?" she asks, pulling away from him.

"Right now, yes. If you wanted purpose, I could _give you_ purpose."

"What kind of purpose?"

"Aggravate the others," he says. "And when they're baying for your blood, I'll release you."

"No deal," Natasha says. "And the fact remains that I didn't wake up yesterday when somebody picked me up and put me to bed. I _never _sleep through till the afternoon. _Never_."

"Just because you slept it doesn't mean you were _poisoned_," Loki says exasperatedly.

"So what happened?"

"I wouldn't know," he says with an infuriating shrug. "Nothing to do with me."

Natasha shakes her head and backs away to the far side of the bath. She doesn't know what to believe anymore. She's good at reading people, in fact she's excellent at it, but Loki's motives and emotions may as well be written in hieroglyphs for all the sense she can make of them. He stares at her for a moment longer, then, when he's realised that she's no longer playing his games, he stands up, and doesn't say another word to her before he leaves.

* * *

Once she's back in her cell, she goes straight for her bed, kicking her shoes off and climbing onto it, plumping up her pillows and making herself comfortable.

"Hard day?" Clint asks sarcastically.

Natasha shrugs. "It's certainly taken a turn for the worse," she says coolly. "If you're just gonna be a shit head though, I'd rather you didn't talk to me."

"Oh dear, I seem to have offended precious Natasha's sensibilities. Why don't you complain to your beloved king?"

Natasha fixes him with a steely glare then lies back, staring at the ceiling, her arms resting on her stomach. If nothing else, she looks forward to Loki's arrival not only because it signals that almost another day in this godforsaken dungeon is over, but also because it means she can really start using the favouritism to her advantage.

The minutes drag by, and it feels like a lifetime has passed by the time she hears the familiar sound of his footsteps. He strides into the dungeon, bold as brass, his leather coat billowing behind him. He smirks at Natasha as he strolls past her, then turns his attention to the others.

"You're all very miserable today," he says. "What's the matter? Expected a little more hospitality?"

"Loki..."

"You can't complain, brother," Loki says, spinning on his heel to face Thor. "You've spent a fraction of the time in here that I did - "

"You tried to invade Earth," Thor says emphatically, his voice rumbling through the dungeons. "Did you expect there would be no repercussions?"

"Did you expect there to be none for your trespassing?"

"This is my _home_," Thor argues. "I'm still a prince, you can hardly call it trespassing."

"You led a band of killers from another realm, known enemies of the king, into this kingdom, and you expect a warm welcome? Forgive me brother, but I rather think you've grown even stupider since last I saw you."

"Loki?" Natasha's voice is soft, but it carries to his ears, and he turns, forgetting Thor and approaching her cell.

"Yes?" he says, his eyes gliding along the length of her body, drinking in every detail of her carefully composed position.

"Can I have some drapes?" she asks, making sure to maintain eye contact with him. She can see the workings of his brain as he considers her request; the slight narrowing of the eyes, pursing of the lips, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together absentmindedly.

"Why do you want drapes?"

"Because I'm sick to death of Clint looking at me like a piece of shit," she replies without hesitation, quirking one eyebrow and ignoring Clint's exaggerated eye roll behind Loki.

"Hmmm..." Loki says, stroking his chin and slowly pacing the length of her cell. "That seems a reasonable request."

"Thank you," she says softly, her lips curving into a smile. Loki smirks, then turns away, Natasha's smile dropping from her face as she rolls onto her back once more and stares at the ceiling, exhaling softly. She can feel Clint's eyes on her, and when she glances over to Steve's cell, she sees that he is eyeing her quizzically, his eyebrows drawn together as he tries to figure her out. She sends him a small smile, and he seems to settle at this, nodding minutely and turning his attention to Loki, who is finding entertainment in Tony and Bruce. He soon grows bored when they don't rise to his taunts, and he leaves the dungeons.

"What the fuck was that about?" Clint demands.

"None of your god damn business," Natasha replies smoothly, not bothering to look at him.

"It's all of our god damn business if you're twirling your hair and batting your eyelashes for him. What's he promised you?"

"Drapes," she replies obviously.

"You've changed your tune, you gotta admit," Tony says. "You've barely spoken to him when he's been down here, but now you're lounging about like a damn cover girl."

"Well he's given her a bed for a purpose," Clint adds. "She's probably had to earn it, and now she's gotta work to keep it."

It's at this point that she seriously considers Loki's offer of release, because Clint's probably already baying for her blood, Tony won't take much more to be pushed over the edge, and Thor and Jane can be taken down together, with a few accusations about how this is all Thor's fault, that he's a waste of space and that he's done absolutely fuck all to try and convince Loki to let them go, because he's too damn arrogant and too damn proud. Bruce, she would need to be careful with, because if she pushes him too far, she will never forgive herself. Steve meanwhile, would be the trickiest of the lot. She doesn't know what she could possibly do that would ever make Steve forget their work together in New York. He will judge her on her actions from then until she behaves so badly that she tips the scale. She can't think of anything (that she'd be prepared to do) that would achieve that.

She could of course tell the others about Loki's offer, but she fears that will do more harm than good. He seems to have eyes and ears everywhere in this dungeon, and the last thing she wants is for everybody else to be punished for her own idiocy. That would really improve her standing with them. But she supposes at least she could close her drapes to avoid all of them.

It's not long before a handful of exasperated looking guards file into her cell and start fixing a rail to her ceiling that goes along the front of her cell, then turns at the corner, where it runs all the way back to the wall. She lays on her bed while they work, twiddling her thumbs and smiling contentedly. None of the guards seem at all bothered by her, which is good. They've even left a large enough gap in the glass for them to pass through, and there are several moments when Natasha could technically make a run for it, but she knows she won't get very far. It's all well and good getting _out_ of her cell, but she needs to get _away_ from it. It's only the first hurdle, and not even the biggest one. The worst thing she could do would be to make a rash decision, fuck it up and then be even worse off.

They eventually bring the drapes in - thick, flowing green velvet edged with twisted golden cord. Despite the rail being suspended far out of Natasha's reach, the material still pools on the floor once hung, and one of the guards draws the drapes back to the wall, ensuring that everything is operating as expected. Then they leave the cell, the glass sliding shut behind them, and Natasha waits for them to depart from the dungeons entirely before she pushes herself up from the bed and goes to inspect her new cell accessories. She holds the velvet up to the light, her hand behind it as she squints, trying to work out if she can see through it. Fortunately for her, Loki doesn't do things by halves, and so the material she has been given won't allow Clint to see so much as her silhouette when she moves around. She pulls the drapes along the rail, Clint's eyes following her as she moves, until finally the material is sitting flush against the wall separating her cell from Thor's.

"Natasha," Steve says. "Dont…don't shut yourself off."

"I'll see you in the morning, Steve," she says softly. She feels bad, but she doesn't want to sit here until lights out while they all silently judge her, or worse, try and question her about her motives.

"Princess has gotta get her beauty sleep, Cap," Tony says. "Leave her be."

She almost smiles at Tony's comment, and then she hears Steve sigh and start pacing around his cell. Jane and Thor converse quietly for the rest of the evening, though Natasha doesn't listen too hard to what they're saying. She's gotten to the point now where she has absolutely had enough of this, and knows that if she doesn't do something soon, _very soon_, she's going to do something reckless. She pulls the quilt over her and settles down for what she hopes will be a decent night's sleep, and an hour or so later, after the lights have been shut off and the others have fallen completely silent, she drifts off, content in the knowledge that her confinement is nearly at an end.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **So I accidentally wrote the entirety of chapter eight this evening. Which means I am posting for this one for you. Think I'll be heading back to work tomorrow though so not sure when I'll be updating next. Still, hopefully this will tide you over until next time. Now I'm off to have a bath, sans Loki, sadly. Boo hoo, etc.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She hears the glass slide across, and through her closed lids can see the increase in light as the guard raises the drape, then soon after comes the sound of her breakfast tray being slid across the floor. She doesn't move a muscle, her face set in a peaceful expression, her breathing slow and steady, and then things become a little darker again as the drape is released, material cascading to the floor, blocking out the dungeon lights. She hears everybody else receive their breakfast, and eventually the guards depart, their boots stomping up the steps to the main palace.

She knows that it will be at least four, if not five hours before lunch comes, and so she makes the most of her time, stretching out on the soft, plump mattress, arms folded under her head. She doesn't know when she'll next get a chance to rest, so she tries to stay as relaxed as possible, yet simultaneously alert enough that she doesn't fall asleep and miss her moment. She can hear the others moving around, swapping gruff, brief sentences which is about the most conversation that anyone will get from these dungeons. Thor and Jane exchange a few quiet words, but nothing of interest to Natasha comes up.

"How long have we been in here?" Tony asks eventually, his voice tired and a little shaky. The stress is getting to him, it's getting to all of them, obviously, but he's done away with his bravado, and now doesn't sound anything like himself. This, if nothing else, confirms to Natasha that enough is enough and there's no more time for games.

"Maybe a week?" Bruce says. "Maybe more, I don't know…" He sighs heavily, and Natasha hears a soft thunk which she assumes is him resting his head back against the wall with little to no regard for his skull.

"Pepper's gonna be worried sick," Tony mutters. His footsteps drag against the floor as he shuffles about his cell, presumably trying to walk off his anxiety. He probably needs a few more square metres of floor space before he has the remotest chance of doing so, but that apparently doesn't stop him, and Natasha's surprised he isn't making himself dizzy, going round in such tight circles.

"Did she know you were coming here?" Jane asks quietly.

"No," he says with a bitter laugh. "She would have totally freaked if I told her I was going on a day trip to an alien planet. She thinks I should steer clear of space given…last time."

"She probably just thinks you've headed to Atlantic City or something. I mean you've taken off before, right?" Bruce says, though the falseness of his optimism is given away by how uncertain he is towards the end, his words fading out slowly, because he knows, just as much as they all know, that not even Tony could spend an entire week in Atlantic City without getting bored.

"Never without calling," Tony replies, heaving a sigh.

"Really?" Steve asks sceptically.

"Well, at least after a couple of days," Tony admits. "But not lately."

"I'm sure we'll be out of here soon," Jane says softly, though judging by the uncomfortable silence that follows, none of them believe her.

Deciding she can stare at the ceiling for no longer, Natasha quietly slips out of bed and begins arranging her pillows into a vaguely body-shaped mound, then lays the covers carefully over it, prodding the pillows into place before she decides that it's enough to fool anyone who glances quickly at it. She arranges her shoes, one hidden under the bed, the other just poking out, drawing attention, then tip toes over to the front left corner of her cell, pulling back the drapes just enough so she can slip behind them, flattening herself into the inside corner of the pillar, just out of sight from anyone on the other side of the glass.

It's a huge gamble, but it's the best chance she's going to have, short of breaking the necks of the guards who escort her to her bath, and even then, Loki would turn up to the bathroom ten minutes later, discover she's not there, and raise the alarm. She needs to complicate things, throw them off the scent, and she needs time to come up with a plan for freeing the others.

By the time the dungeon door opens and the guards come traipsing in bearing lunch, her bare feet are cold and sore, her back aching from being locked in the same position for what she thinks is nearly two hours. She holds her breath as the glass slides open, biting down hard on her lip when the drapes are lifted. She feels the guard's confusion as the material suddenly stills, and then hears him dump the tray, pushing her untouched breakfast tray further into the cell. He ducks under the drapes then drops the material, and Natasha prays for it to stop moving. If it raises his suspicion then she's done for, and this whole plan will have been a complete waste. Thankfully, however, he seems more concerned with the bed.

"Are you all right?" he asks gruffly. "Your lunch is here."

There is, of course, no reply, and from outside, the other guard calls, "What's the matter?"

"She's not moved since this morning," comes the answer.

"So?"

"_So_, I think she might be sick or something."

"It's not our job to look after her," the outside guard reminds him. "It's out job to deliver her food and that's _it. _If you're that worried alert the king."

"Hello?" There is a pause, and then, "Ejvald?"

"_What_?" His tone is impatient, and he is apparently fed up with the delay. Natasha doesn't imagine he has much better things to be doing, but he seems displeased all the same.

"She's not here."

"What d'you mean she's not _there_?"

"I _mean_ she's gone!"

Ejvald mutters something under his breath, and Natasha tucks herself even more tightly into the corner, crushing her shoulder blades painfully against the wall. The drapes lift again as Ejvald enters the cell, and there is silence, as (Natasha assumes) he is shown the pile of pillows masquerading as her body.

"Let's get some light in here," Ejvald says, his voice quiet and cracking with an imminent onslaught of stress. She hears him pace over to the far corner of the cell and he draws back the drapes, Natasha holding her breath, praying she won't get caught. His footsteps get louder and louder as he approaches, and she's sure he must be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest, he _must_ be able to. But then the scraping sound of the hooks on the rail stops, and the material stills.

"She's not here. She's gone."

"Look, her shoes! Check under the bed!"

It's now or never. Natasha peeks around the edge of the drapes, and sees both of the guards on their hands and knees, peering into the darkness that is the underside of her bed. Carefully, she tip toes along the front of the cell, and she turns to look at the others, who have all been watching the scene with great interest. Steve's jaw drops, and then he grins in admiration as Natasha slips through the gap between the glass and the pillar, and Tony presses his hands to the glass, about to mouth something to her, but Natasha holds a finger to her lips and shakes her head.

_I'll come back_, she mouths, and she glances down towards Bruce, who looks happier than he has for a long time, some of the glimmer returning to his warm eyes. She meets Clint's frosty gaze as she heads for the stairs. She urges him to trust her, but she can tell from his expression that he is sure she is abandoning them. Maybe she would have, in the old days, but this isn't the old days. Apart from the fact that they're the closest thing she has to friends, she knows that Fury would _kill _her if she dared go back to Earth without each and every one of them in tow.

"She was here this morning! I saw her! She was sleeping!"

"Are you _sure _it was her? Or was it just a pile of pillows?" There is a loud thump, followed by a groan, and it seems that Ejvald is fast losing his patience, and has thrown one of the larger pillows at his comrade's face. "Where _is she_?" he bellows.

"I haven't heard anything from her since last night," Steve says. "She closed the drapes and that was the last I saw of her."

Natasha smirks as she reaches the top of the stairs, the sound of the unrest in the dungeons fading from her ears as she reaches ground level. She takes a quick look in each direction, and when she sees nobody coming either way, she walks quickly along the corridor, the marble floor chilly against her bare feet. She has no idea where she's going, and cautiously peers around every corner, hoping against hope that she won't run into anybody. She wishes now that she'd asked more about the palace, maybe Sif would have told her a little under the guise of sating curiosity, but no. The only thing she knows is that she mustn't go through the large doors, because large doors are for important people, and small doors are for insignificant folk, perfect, unnoticed hiding places because they've never been given an ounce of regard at any point.

Eventually she finds a small door near the edge of the palace, and she opens it quietly, ducking inside, checking that it's empty before she closes the door. It's just a store cupboard, with brown woven sacks of grain and potatoes, large paper bags of flour, salt and sugar, and crates upon crates of vegetables, still stained with the earth from which they were pulled. She supposes she must be somewhere near the kitchens, and hopes that the preparations for dinner are already well under way, otherwise she'll have to find a hiding place amongst the cabbages, which isn't the most appealing idea.

She sits down in the corner, behind the shelf containing large glass jars of spices and seasonings. She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her arms on top of them, racking her brain as she tries to pull together a plan. If Thor's right, she can't release the others - she has no way of opening the glass, so it's going to be up to them to make the most of those few seconds when their food is delivered. She hopes that they'll try something a touch more sophisticated than Clint's slam and shove, but they lack the materials she had. Granted it was only a bed and some drapes, but it was enough to create an illusion, a magic trick. There are no hiding places in their bare cells, and she doesn't know if they'll have the energy to attack after their poor diet of bread and water.

Either way, she needs to get back down to the dungeons and talk to them. She knows they must have doubled the number of guards by now, driven insane by the apparent mystery of her escape, so she can't walk back in there when it's daylight. Her best shot, she supposes, is to go back in the dead of night, when the palace is quiet and the lights are out. If there _are_ a couple of guards down there, she supposes she can knock them unconscious. She doesn't want to hurt them, not for following orders, but at the same time it is paramount that she explains to the others exactly what is going on. And who knows, maybe Thor's mistaken. Maybe one doesn't have to be Asgardian in order to unlock the cells, maybe that's just a wild assumption on his part. She could always steal a spear and try. What's the worst that could happen?

She can't have been hiding out for more than an hour or two when the door to the store room opens, and Natasha, holding her breath, scoots back as far into the corner as she possibly can. A small, slender woman in a simple blue dress, a floury handprint sticking out like a sore thumb on one side of the skirt, walks around the room with a large wooden box, humming cheerfully to herself as she picks through a basket of mushrooms, selecting the ones she wants. She then moves on to the carrots, taking half a dozen of them and dropping them into her box with a series of dull thunks. Natasha considers slowly shifting one of the potato sacks round so she can sink behind it, but then decides that any movement at all would be far too risky. If she can just stay stock still, then she might be lucky enough that the woman will finishing choosing her ingredients and will be on her way.

It is a slow and painful process however, because after digging through a crate for a good five minutes, the woman apparently decides that none of the green beans are up to standard, and lets out a huff, placing her hand on her hip and shaking her head. Natasha is breathing shallowly, certain that if she dares to inhale any more oxygen (which her body is currently clamouring for, thanks to her increased heart rate) she will be discovered and thrown back into her cell, with guards keeping watch on her twenty four hours a day.

"Ilza?"

The woman turns towards the open door at the sound of her name, and Natasha doesn't know whether she should be relieved or panicked. Either Ilza is about to be called away from the store room, or Natasha is going to have to contend with avoiding _two_ pairs of eyes.

An older woman with her long grey hair braided over one shoulder arrives in the doorway. Natasha holds her breath and closes her eyes, trying to convince her rapidly pumping heart to slow down because she's _certain_ they must be able to hear it.

"Hurry yourself, we've only half an hour until serving time," the older woman says sternly. Ilza nods, throws a few more things into her box, then, balancing it on her hip heads towards the door, the older woman standing aside to let her pass before she closes it behind both of them. Natasha waits until the sound of their chatter fades from earshot, then lets out a slow, shaky sigh. If it's nearly dinner time then it can't be much longer until it's time for lights out in the dungeons. At the very least, she is relieved to know that there will be no more interruptions in the store room now, and when her stomach starts to growl a couple of hours later, Natasha starts to quietly search through the offerings of the store room, trying to find something that won't be missed. She decides she can take a chance on a perfectly round, rosy red apple, and she slowly chews on the crunchy flesh, pausing every now and then to listen out for nearby footsteps.

She's still not quite sated when she comes to the end of the apple, and she tosses the core into a corner, before she begins to search for something a little more substantial. There's not much she can put to use in here without the assistance of an oven, but eventually she finds some crackers and a large block of cheese on one of the shelves. After she's helped herself to that, she considers the time once more, and decides to give it another hour before she heads back to the dungeons, just to ensure that everybody is indeed in bed. She knows she cannot trust her judgement of time at the moment. Her only real signifier had been when the guards had appeared three times a day with their trays, but now she doesn't even have that. All she has is the silence and the knowledge that Loki has _probably_ had his dinner by now.

After what feels like a lifetime, a strange silence settles over the palace. Natasha doesn't know whether she has imagined it, or whether everyone has actually finished for the night. She assumes there will still be guards stationed by the most important rooms - weapons vault, Loki's chambers, the palace entrance itself - but she feels like this is the most deserted the palace will ever be, and thus the best chance she's got at returning to the dungeons.

She walks quickly along the corridor, her bare feet not making a sound against the tiles. It concerns her that she doesn't encounter any obstacles on her way; not a single guard, nor a night time wanderer is to be seen. She doesn't hear a sound, and she wonders whether Loki relies more on his magic than his guards in order to secure the castle. By the time she reaches the door to the dungeons, her feet are numb with cold, and she opens it slowly, wincing at the loud creak emitted by the rusting door hinges. She leaves it open, just enough for her to slip back through again in a few minutes' time, deciding that the creak is more likely to attract unwanted attention than a slightly open door.

She descends the steps quietly, hand brushing against the wall to aid her balance in the pitch black, and she squints, trying to pick out something, _anything_, that might alert her to the presence of any guards. She skirts around the dungeons, listening hard for something abnormal, a breathing pattern she doesn't recognise, the clink of armour as its wearer shifts their weight from one foot to the other. There's nothing, however. She can pick out Thor's soft snores, Jane's quiet sleepy sighs (she's still awake), as well as Bruce's fidgeting, Tony's unconscious mumbling, Steve's deep, measured breaths (he's awake too) and finally, the silence that belongs unmistakably to Clint.

"Hello?" she says softly. "Anyone awake?"

"Natasha?"

"Steve?"

"Yeah it's me. You figured out a way of getting us outta here?"

Before she can answer, she is blinded by a bright white light, and all around her she hears groans of discomfort.

"You should know better than to return to the scene of the crime."

When she can finally focus her eyes in the unwelcome, harsh light, her gaze lands on Loki, leaning against the far wall, his arms folded casually, his eyes glinting with delight. Natasha's blood runs cold, and she feels like the biggest idiot in the universe. She should never have come back here. What has she achieved except an afternoon in a store room hiding among some potatoes? She could have had a far more glamorous time lounging on her bed in her cell, which she knows is exactly where she'll be going now that she's been caught. She also knows she will be relieved of her drapes as punishment, probably the bed too, and Loki will ensure that they are _all_ kept under surveillance, twenty-four hours a day.

"With me, Natasha," Loki says, pushing himself away from the wall and striding towards the door. "Come along now."

Natasha takes one glance back at everybody, their hands shielding their eyes from the light, expressions of confusion painted across their tired faces.

"Brother - "

They don't get to hear what Thor has to say, because they quickly reach the main level of the palace, and Loki closes the dungeon door behind them.

"Come," he says, turning right and heading towards a large set of arching doors. Natasha follows without a word, wondering what fate he has in store for her. If he's been frustratedly searching for her then she suspects her near future is not pleasant. They go through door after door after door, and Natasha tries to mentally map her way, but the corridors all look the same, and in the dim light any small, distinguishing features which might exist are lost to the naked eye.

When he pushes open the last door, Natasha is confused. He's taken her to a well appointed bedroom, complete with a bed very similar to the one which had been delivered to Natasha's cell. There are paintings hung on the walls, a well stocked book case, a desk in one corner, and another door, which she assumes leads to an en-suite.

"Sleep here tonight," he says, holding the door open for her so she can step inside. "I'll see you at breakfast."

"What?"

He frowns, and Natasha realises she needs to express herself a touch more eloquently if she is to receive any answers.

"I just sleep here and that's it? I mean, what's going on?"

"I'll speak to you at breakfast," he says wearily, his showy facade dropped now they are away from the dungeons. "It's late."

"But I escaped," Natasha says. "Surely - "

"Yes, you did," Loki says impatiently. "And quite frankly I'm surprised and just a _little_ disappointed that it took you _this _long."

He turns away from her, striding down the corridor, his footsteps echoing around the cavernous walls. She allows the bedroom door to close, and as she moves over to the bed, she tries to make sense of what she can only consider to be a nonsensical situation. Is she just a prisoner in a different location now? Is it just a cell upgrade? Or - and she doesn't even want to _think_ the word, doesn't want to ignite that spark of hope brought on by Loki's disappointment at her tardiness - is she…_free_?


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **I had intended to get this up last night but I accidentally fell asleep at half past eight and all my plans went awry. Still, here it is. I'll be working on chapter six of The Interloper next so it might be a few days before we get another update over here.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's eerily quiet when she awakes. She doesn't know what time it is, so she rolls over to look at the window. Through the slatted wooden shutters she can see strips of daylight, and so she sits up, running her fingers through her hair and stifling a yawn. She is apprehensive, and yet at the same time relieved. She's not sure how much more of those dungeons she could take, how long she would have been able to ignore Clint's spite and bitterness for. Whatever happens now, at least she has, apparently, levelled up in prisoner status.

There is a soft knock at the door and Natasha frowns, having grown unused to such courtesies in her time here. She knows it isn't Loki, because he would come barging straight in without so much as a good morning.

"Yes?" Natasha asks, glancing around for a suitable weapon, should she need it. The chunky gold candlestick on the bedside table looks like it could land quite a blow in the back of the skull and she almost smiles to herself at the thought of it. Agent Romanov, in the bedroom, with the candlestick.

The door opens slowly, and a woman carefully slips inside, closing the door behind her. She doesn't make eye contact with Natasha, her head bowed, and she curtsies respectfully. "Breakfast will be served in an hour in the main dining chamber. Would you like me to draw a bath for you, my lady?"

Natasha's frown deepens, and after a moment of silence, the woman looks up. She is only young, and her dress is slightly more showy than Ilza's from the storeroom. It is still practical, but it has a little more flow, the material a little more delicate, and she has a decorative brooch pinning a silky golden sash to her shoulder.

"Please," Natasha says, pulling the covers off of herself and swinging her legs out of the bed. The woman nods, then walks towards the door on the far side of the room, pushing it open and disappearing into the bathroom. Soon Natasha hears the sound of the taps running and she heads for the open door, wondering whether she might, at last, get to have an uninterrupted bath.

"What's your name?" she asks, raising her voice a fraction so she can be heard over the running water.

"Salme, my lady," she answers politely, though she is still not keen on meeting Natasha's eye. She wonders whether it's because she's a prisoner, or if that's just part of being one of the household staff. She knows that Loki is often unreasonable, but she can't imagine him banning eye contact. He's not _ridiculous_.

"That's pretty," Natasha tells her, and the woman smiles, her stiff shoulders relaxing just a little. "Do you…" Natasha begins slowly with a shrug. She takes a few casual steps forward, her hands clasped in front of her, and Salme looks up at last. "D'you know what's going on here? 'Cause I have to say, I'm pretty stumped…"

"I was told to tend to your every need, my lady. I was given no information other than that."

Natasha nods, and when the bath is full with steaming water, Salme crouches down to turn off the taps.

"I'll lay out some fresh clothes on your bed," she says, patting her hands dry on the sides of her skirt. "Is there anything else you'll be needing, my lady?"

Natasha shakes her head, and so Salme curtsies and turns to the door. Feeling like she is about to waste an opportunity, Natasha calls after her. "Salme, wait!"

She turns immediately, her face set in an obedient and expectant expression. "My lady?"

"What's Loki like as a king?" she asks, wondering if Salme's response will differ from Sif and Fandral's. Perhaps the staff have a better view of things. They are, after all, paid to be as invisible as possible while accomplishing as much as possible. She is disappointingly unsurprised when Salme's mouth stretches into a genuine smile.

"He is very good to the people," she says, and she maintains eye contact for the entire sentence, which it seems is a rarity for her. "He treats us well, and we are justly rewarded for all our hard work."

"You weren't before?"

Salme's brow creases a little at this, and she looks down at her hands. "The last king had a temper," she says quietly. "The queen was just and fair, but the king was…King Loki takes more after his mother than his father."

"Right…" Natasha says, banking the information away. She had never imagined that Loki really _took_ after anyone, that his adoption, and his subsequent galactic temper tantrum had forged a new man, leaving behind whatever it was that Thor used to recognise as his brother. "And what about Thor? You know Loki has him locked in the dungeons, right?"

"That is the king's private business," Salme says stiffly. "It is not my place to pass judgement or make comment on such matters."

"Yeah but what d'you think of Thor?" Natasha presses. "Do you think he would have been a good king?"

"He turned down the throne and abandoned his people to go and live on Midgard. He did not care who would rule the kingdom after his father died. It was extremely lucky that Loki returned to us, or else anybody might be ruling us now."

Natasha nods, and decides that she's probably quizzed Salme enough. "Thanks," she says. "You can carry on with whatever you're doing now. I was just curious." She shrugs and offers a small smile, hoping she hasn't offended the woman with her questions. Her loyalty is unwavering it seems, and there is no doubt that Loki has earned it, has probably earned it from all his staff. She wonders whether a pay increase at the beginning of his reign sufficed, or if it has taken more than that to prove his worth to them as king. Salme leaves the bathroom and the doors close with a heavy thud.

Natasha peels off her dress and lets it fall at her feet, before descending the steps into the bath. This one is carved into the marble, and is even more extravagant than that which she is used to. She recognises the bottles on offer though, and realises that she was granted a little more luxury than she thought at the time. She sighs as she submerges herself, the water almost unbearably hot, just how she likes it, and sweat starts to bead on her forehead as she closes her eyes and rests her head back against the edge of the bath. She lets out a sigh, content in the knowledge that she is alone, and her lips curve into a soft smile, glad that she is one luxurious step closer to her freedom.

* * *

"Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," Natasha says carefully, buttering her bread with the gleaming gold knife laid out for her. Everything is so ridiculously extravagant, considering that it's _just_ breakfast, but she supposes she shouldn't be surprised that Loki is making the most of his position of power. After all, he probably doesn't know how long it'll last. Sif, Fandral and Volstagg are also taking breakfast with them, and Fandral and Volstagg are murmuring something between themselves. Though Natasha strains her ears to hear, she can't make it out.

"Reports from the dungeons?" Loki asks, looking towards Sif, who is drinking deeply from her goblet of orange juice.

"All quiet, my liege," she answers, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "There has been talk of the events of last night, but nothing else."

Loki nods, apparently expecting this to be the answer. "Who do we think will make a break for it next?"

"Barton," Sif replies immediately. "He's…the least content with the circumstances. He already tried once, but was unsuccessful."

"And I fear his temper will limit him," Loki says. "Keep an eye on it. He _will_ try to kill me if he escapes."

"Can you blame him?" Natasha mutters. "After everything you did to him?"

Loki frowns, puts down his fork, then turns to her. "You defend him? After he has turned on you? You defend _any_ of them, after you have been vilified? Branded a traitor?"

"No one _said_ I was a traitor," Natasha replies darkly, stabbing at her bacon viciously with her fork.

"But we all know they were thinking it," Loki replies, his lips curving into a smirk.

"So far," Natasha says, pausing to swallow her bacon. "_You're_ the only one that's mentioned traitors."

"But Agent Barton has all but disowned you, has he not?"

"He's _scared_," Natasha says fiercely, turning towards Loki. "Because you fucked with his head last time and forced him to kill a bunch of people on his own side. The only people on his own side on this planet are his _friends_. Of _course_ he's paranoid."

"You really think that?" Loki asks, raising an eyebrow. He picks up his cutlery and resumes eating, and Natasha resists the urge to kick him under the table. She knows, however, that she will probably do more damage to her foot than to him, given that he is bedecked in full leather and metal, ready for another hard and taxing day of being the king. She glances over to Sif, who shakes her head just a fraction, before she picks up her goblet once more, draining the last of her juice.

"So what's happening now?" Natasha asks. "Am I free?"

"In what sense?" Loki asks.

"In, you know, the _free_ sense?"

"You can go home, if that's what you mean."

"Really?" The news surprises her. She had thought there would be some repercussions for her escape, that she would have to work harder for her freedom, that it wouldn't just be handed to her on a platter along with her breakfast.

"Of course you can," Loki says, leaning back in his chair. "But you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you won't leave without the others," he tells her, his hands resting on the table. He glances down the length of her, then his eyes return to her face. She doesn't like it when he does that, but it's hardly the most offensive thing he's ever done to her. He's absolutely right though. She _won't_ leave without the others. She can't possibly even consider it, not even after all the jibes thrown in her direction, all the blame placed upon her. She will not turn on them in the way that they have turned on her.

"You see?" Loki says softly. "You are bound by loyalty to the friends who have forsaken you. Ergo, you are _not_ free."

He is right, of course, and she hates that. She drops her cutlery onto her plate and pushes it away, done with eating. She can't sit here and dine with him while she knows the others are being given bread and water, just as they have been for days.

"How do they earn their freedom then?" Natasha asks. "By escaping?"

"They won't be able to escape," Loki tells her. "Security has been tightened after your breach. There are guards keeping watch round the clock now."

"But - "

"They're still baffled, you know," Loki tells her. "The guards. I'm using more intelligent ones this time. Ones that might think to look behind the drapes…"

Natasha frowns. How he knows her method of escape when the guards are still clueless, she has no idea. She doesn't understand why he has tightened the security if he has eyes and ears all over the place, but she supposes it's just for show, as is everything with him. He places his napkin on top of his empty plate, and Sif, Fandral and Volstagg all follow suit, despite the fact that Volstagg is still chewing.

"We're done," Loki says to the woman standing quietly by the door, her uniform matching Salme's. She comes over and collects the plates, first Natasha's, then Sif, Fandral, and Volstagg's, and lastly she moves over to Loki and balances his plate on top of the others. "Thank you, Kari," he says, looking up at her. She smiles and nods, her knees bending in as much of a curtsey as she can manage with her arms loaded with their breakfast things, then disappears from the dining chamber.

Natasha is confused by his behaviour. He clearly knows Kari's name, yet she had always thought he would consider servants beneath him, and unworthy of his attention, let alone the small amount of memory and effort it would take to address them by their names. Perhaps she is an exception, perhaps she always plays the same role, thus he is able to put a name to her familiar face, but Natasha doesn't think so. As much as he enjoys showing favouritism and playing divide and conquer with his prisoners, she doubts that he takes the same view when it comes to his household staff. Pissed off servants are unlikely to smile their way through a day and so she can only assume that he has deemed his own comfort enough of a priority that it's worth being half decent to his staff.

"Counsel meeting today, my liege?"

Loki shakes his head. "Not today, Sif. I thought I might take Natasha out to see the rest of Asgard. Outside the palace walls. I daresay she has grown tired of being inside."

"Very well," Sif says. "And now that Natasha is out of the dungeons," she adds slowly, a hint of uncertainty to her voice as she fingers the twisted stem of her goblet.

"Yes?"

"Well, I just thought you might want to…pass your favouritism onto another."

Loki shakes his head. "I only have _one_ favourite, Sif."

"Yes, but don't you want to cause more upset?" she presses, not meeting his eye. Natasha frowns, and she think she knows what Sif is getting at. She casts her eyes over to Loki, who has apparently also figured out Sif's true intentions, his eyes narrowed, chin resting on top of his clasped hands.

"We've moved on to round two now, Sif. The favouritism game is over."

"And what exactly _is_ round two?" Natasha asks. Volstagg is watching her, his eyes occasionally flicking over to Sif, as though expecting her to argue with Loki. When she doesn't, he looks towards Fandral, and it appears that they are both used to post-breakfast debates. Judging from their expressions, Sif never wins.

"You'll find out in good time," Loki tells her. "Don't worry."

"Loki they're _starving_," Sif interrupts, banging her fist on the table. "They're _ill_. I'm not sure Dr Banner will last another week on bread and water, his condition must require - "

"They're prisoners, Sif," Loki says coolly. "What do you expect?"

"You're playing a _game_," Sif argues, leaning forward, her hair falling past her shoulder and brushing against the table top. "And it's not going to be very _interesting_ when they're all dead, is it?"

"And I suppose you would have me send them all roasted chickens, broth and pies, would you?" Loki snaps. "Remember your _place_, Sif."

"And remember _yours_," Sif bites back. Fandral closes his eyes, and Volstagg actually goes so far as to bury his head in his hands. "Your mother would be ashamed of what you're doing to them. Your own _brother_. You have a chance to start anew with him. He doesn't want the throne, he hasn't come back to claim it, and if he sees you ruling _well_, he will not worry about going back to Midgard and _leaving you to it_. You are _paranoid_ that he has come to take your kingdom from you. You know damn well that he did not organise a coup, but the more you use it as an excuse, the more you are inclined to believe your own lies."

"Get out before I throw you into the dungeons with them," Loki says coldly, not looking at her. Sif remains in her seat for a moment, then stands abruptly, kicking her chair away from her before she storms towards the doors. She slams them behind her, the sound echoing around the arched ceiling, and nobody says a word. She's amazed that Loki has been as lenient as he has been, that he would allow arguments at _his_ breakfast table to reach such volume and aggression. Apparently he has a soft spot for women who don't give a shit, however, because Natasha can see similarities between herself and Sif, and despite their aversion to obedience and deference, they are both still granted a seat at the king's table.

"Volstagg," Loki says, looking down the other end of the table, his face resting wearily on his hand. Volstagg looks up, his eyes shifting as though he fears that he is about to be banished from the table too. "Give the prisoners something."

"_Something_, my liege?" Volstagg asks, his brow creased in confusion.

"Meat, fruit, but not too much," Loki says. "Do not overindulge them. If you do, I shall reduce your meals accordingly."

Volstagg nods. "Understood, my liege," he says gruffly.

"Don't tell Sif," Loki adds tiredly. "Or she'll start thinking she's running the place."

Natasha smirks, and from the corner of her eye she catches Fandral's lips twitch in amusement.

"Same protocol as usual," Loki adds. "Not a word to the prisoners."

Fandral and Volstagg nod, and Loki dismisses them with a wave of his hand. They stand, and Volstagg shakes the crumbs from his beard, earning himself a disgusted nose scrunch from Loki, before he and Fandral depart, leaving Natasha alone with him.

"Kari?" Loki calls. The door opens almost instantly, and Kari is standing primly in the doorway, awaiting orders. "Have Swain ready my horse, and another for Agent Romanov, will you? Leave this mess until later," he says, gesturing towards the goblets and jugs on the table. "I fear Volstagg has left you half a loaf's worth of crumbs to sweep up, _again_."

Kari almost lets out a small giggle, and she nods, curtsies, then disappears from the doorway.

Natasha is baffled by him. How he can go from starving his own brother to apologising for a messy eater is beyond her. He doesn't seem to think much of it, because he rests his hands on his knees and leans back in his seat, then turns to look at her.

"What?" he asks, frowning at her.

Natasha shrugs. "I'm just wondering if people are saying good things about their king because they like him, or whether it's because they know that if they say anything else, they'll be thrown into the dungeons or have their head chopped off."

"You're asking me whether I am feared by my people, or loved?" Loki says, raising an eyebrow.

"Pretty much," Natasha replies. It will be interesting to get his take on things. After all, if everyone else _is_ speaking out of fear for their lives or their freedom, then Loki's is the only genuine opinion she'll get, even if it is hugely biased.

"Why don't you come and see for yourself?" he says, standing up and holding out a hand to her. She hesitates, then takes it, allowing him to guide her to her feet. As soon as she is upright she drops her hand from his, and he smirks, shaking his head.

"Guided tour of Asgard," she says, not wanting the silence to linger. "What are we waiting for?"

Loki leads the way, and Natasha finds that the knot in her stomach is just a little looser, now she knows that everyone down in the dungeons will be getting fed, thanks to Sif, and thanks especially to Loki's pressure points, a list of which she has stored away in the back of her mind, certain that they will come in very handy sooner or later.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **And we're back after the weekend interlude. In case you haven't picked up on my routine now, it's basically Mutiny for the week and Interloping for the weekend. That's how this shit is going down. Hope you like this one...

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Negotiating her way onto the horse with her ridiculous dress is a pain in the ass. Loki watches her as she struggles, eyebrow raised, and when she eventually settles, she straightens her shoulders, takes hold of the reins, and stares straight ahead.

"Ready?" he asks, and she doesn't need to look at him to know that he's smirking.

"Yes," she says coolly. Without another word, Loki sets off first, his horse's hooves clip clopping on the cobbled path that winds its way down to a much wider road. Natasha follows him, her horse issuing a disgruntled snort as she shifts on the saddle, trying to make herself more comfortable. She hasn't ridden a horse for years, hasn't needed to, but it soon comes back to her, much like riding a bike, she doesn't think she'll ever forget how to do it.

Large green trees stretch overhead, casting cool shadows over them as they travel slowly along. Apparently he's in no rush, and Natasha supposes that neither is she, but she's getting impatient with regards to the fate of her friends. The fact that they're getting fed something more substantial today puts her at ease a little, but just because Loki's ensuring he doesn't have half a dozen dead prisoners to deal with, it doesn't mean that they're any closer to freedom. She doesn't want to bring the subject up however, because he's still probably irritable from his disagreement with Sif, and the fact that he has relented, whether she knows it or not, is probably eating away at his pride.

"So," Natasha says, her lips curving into a smile. "You ever thought about taking a queen?"

Loki arches an eyebrow. "Why? Are you volunteering?"

"Hell no," she replies, her smile dropping. "I was thinking about Sif."

"_Sif_?"

"Yeah," Natasha replies. "You respect her at least, and she's pretty, intelligent - "

"And she pined after my dear brother for years…" Loki adds.

"Oh," she says. This is news to her, especially after her cool treatment of Thor in the dungeons. "Does she still - "

Loki shakes his head. "No. She gave up on him long ago, but nevertheless, even if she _were_ my type, I wouldn't want to take his reject as my queen. I do have _some_ pride, you know."

"She's not a _reject_," Natasha argues. "She's not tainted just because - "

"I'm not _saying_ she's tainted," he replies with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "I'm saying that given history, and given the volume of people that _know_ that history, it wouldn't…sit well. And besides, I shan't take a queen for the sake of it. I'm sure she would make a fine queen, but not for me."

"Why not?" Natasha asks, unused to hearing him bestow compliments without any obvious reward dangling in front of him.

"Too noble," he says, pulling a face. "I think I'd prefer somebody a little more…chequered."

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"Well," he says with a shrug. "One has to have one's fun, do they not?"

"Right…" Natasha says. She supposes she _does_ know what he means. She could never settle for a do-gooder. As endearing as they might be at first, _marrying one_ is not something she'd consider to be a good idea. Getting married isn't really a good idea in her book at all, to be perfectly honest. It complicates things, gives people leverage, and apart from that, white _really_ isn't her best colour. Loki on the other hand, well he has certain obligations as a king, not just to rule, but to ensure there is an heir to take over after he's gone. The thought sends a shiver of dread through her. Any kid, Asgardian or not, is going to be messed up beyond all recognition with Loki as a father. That's a disaster waiting to happen, and she can only take solace in the fact that by the time it does happen, she'll be long gone, and it will be the next generation's problem.

"Your concern about my love life aside," Loki says, glancing over to her then back at the road. "You have to make a decision today."

"What kind of decision?" Natasha asks.

"About who gets to join you," he replies.

"Join me how?"

"There are six prisoners in the dungeons. You can reduce that number to five. Pick one."

Natasha blinks. She can't work him out, not one little bit. Surely there has to be a catch, it can't be as simple as her choosing to free somebody else and that's that. He's not tired of the game, is he? Perhaps he's trying to get it all wrapped up, over and done with, now that he's faced with the very dull prospect of having to give them decent amounts of food. Maybe he doesn't get the same buzz out of it, now that they're not starving. She knows immediately who she'll pick however, because there's only one person who can really put a stop to all of this.

"Thor," she says plainly, staring straight ahead.

"_Not_ Thor," Loki replies instantly, and Natasha lets out a frustrated sigh.

"You said pick one, so I picked one."

"Thor is a special consideration. You can have any of the others."

Natasha shakes her head, chewing on her lower lip. How she can be expected to make a fair choice, she has no idea. No matter who she chooses now, someone will be pissed. She thinks they all would have understood her picking Thor, and even if they hadn't, the chances are they'd have been sprung from their cells hours later, and any anger or bitterness would have faded into a distant memory. Now however, she has to choose between the others, she has to weigh up need versus usefulness, though she's quite sure they all equally _need_ releasing. Some would be more valuable allies than others, however.

As they round the bend in the road, Natasha sees several small cottages in the distance, tucked into the trees by the roadside. They progress further, and more and more houses come into view, and soon they are in a small village, bustling with activity. The path is clear for them, and as the horses walk along, the inhabitants of the village turn to bow or curtsey in deference, before they continue about their business.

"When my father died, this village was a wreck," Loki tells her. "The Dark Elves attacked and there was barely a building left standing."

Natasha looks around, and sees that the large stone bricks that make up the lower parts of the houses and the inns are far more weathered than those that make up the rest of the exterior. The roof tiles too have barely seen rain or wind, still clean and fresh as though they were laid yesterday.

"So what happened?" Natasha asks, wondering exactly what point he's trying to make.

"Well, the palace was nearing the end of refurbishment, but there had been no plans to repair the villages. Thousands of people were homeless, but my father did not consider that to be his problem."

"But you considered it to be yours?" Natasha asks, raising one eyebrow.

"I take _pride_ in my kingdom," Loki replies coolly. "I'm not going to rule over some pox-ridden wasteland. My father cared for gold in a way that I do not, so I spent a lot of it on restoring the villages. Apart from the fact that everyone was _very_ grateful to their new king," he pauses to look at her, his lips twitching slightly at the corners. "Their gratitude means that they work hard, they pay their taxes, and everybody is happy."

"Well isn't that just perfect?" Natasha says, with only a touch of sarcasm. He certainly knows how to win the people over, but, she supposes, it's not really done them any harm. She can see that the villagers are happy, and while she has no idea what things were like before, she knows that this is a vast improvement on the living standards endured after the Dark Elves attacked. It seems that both Loki and his subjects have mutually benefitted from his rule, and now she sees why Loki has earned Sif, Fandral, and Volstagg's loyalty, no matter how grudging. He is doing right by the people, and whatever his motivations might be, whether it is to spite his dead father, encourage adoration, or, unlikely, but still a remote possibility, simply because he wants to be _good_. It doesn't matter, because the fact is that the people have roofs over their heads, they have jobs, plenty of food, and nobody is _suffering_.

"King Loki! King Loki!"

Natasha looks around and spots a small girl hurrying towards them. Loki pulls on his reins, his horse stopping obediently, and Natasha follows suit, though hers is a little less inclined to do as told. The girl stops by the side of Loki's horse, her face flushed, and she is a little out of breath from running. In her hand is a large bunch of wild flowers, some with their long pale roots still hanging off the bottom of the stems. She holds them up.

"I picked these for you!" she says brightly.

To Natasha's surprise, Loki jumps down from his horse and crouches before the girl, taking the flowers from her. "Well these are _lovely_," he says, looking down at them, and while Natasha can tell that he couldn't give any less of a damn about a bunch of posies, he's doing a very convincing job of pretending to be thankful. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Disa, your majesty," she says obediently with a small curtsey. Natasha smiles as she leaves muddy hand prints on the skirt of her dress.

"Disa…" Loki repeats. "A pretty name for a pretty little girl."

Disa beams at this, her grin stretching wider than any Natasha has ever seen.

"Why don't I let my companion look after these?" Loki says to her, standing up and passing the flowers to Natasha. She resists the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that he is simply palming them off on her so she can handle the dirt encrusted stems instead.

"Is she your queen?" Disa asks, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, teeth biting into her lip mischievously as she awaits an answer.

"Good heavens, no," Loki replies with a frown. "She's Midgardian."

"_Midgardian_?" Disa says, staring at Natasha, her jaw hanging low. "_Really_?"

"Really," Loki tells her patiently.

"Well," Disa says. "It's a good job she's not going to be your queen. You might miss your whole marriage if you blink!"

Natasha can't help but frown, and Loki lets out a loud and genuine chuckle, much to Natasha's displeasure. She's not entirely keen on the subject of her limited life span being the butt of their jokes, especially not the jokes of some bratty little kid.

"Well exactly," Loki says to Disa, his laughter subsiding. "But by the same token, we must hurry along, we've probably spent half her lifetime here just talking!" He stands up, smoothing down his sleeves, and turns towards his horse.

Disa giggles, and Natasha's frown turns into a more pronounced scowl. She's sure it's very funny to them, with their five thousand year lifespans, but she doesn't appreciate being talked about as though she's not there.

"Before you go," Disa says boldly, and Loki turns back to her, giving her his attention. She looks around, then lowers her voice to a whisper. "My dad said you used to be naughty. Is that true?"

"Might be," Loki says ambiguously. "What does your father say of me now?"

"Oh he says you're a great king," Disa tells him enthusiastically. "He says that Asgard has never been better in all his life."

"Your father is a wise man," Loki replies, and Natasha cannot keep her eye roll at bay this time. Loki must spot it from the corner of his eye, because his lips curve into a smirk.

"I only asked if you were naughty," Disa says, her voice low once more, "because _I_ like being naughty. And I thought if the _king_ was naughty and he could still be good, then _I _could be naughty and still be good."

"When one is king, one has to be responsible," Loki tells her, pressing an earnest hand to his heart. "There is an entire realm depending on your good judgement."

"So you don't _ever_ get to be naughty?" Disa asks, her brow creased in concern as though this is the most terrible fate that could ever befall anyone.

"Oh I wouldn't say that," Loki says. "You just have to find other ways to misbehave." He climbs back onto his horse and Disa steps back, a grin spreading across her face.

"What kind of ways?"

"Secret ways," he says, and then he gives her the smallest of winks, before he sets off on his horse once more. Natasha can hardly believe what she's seeing, but she awkwardly grips her reins, flowers in hand, and gets her horse moving. It breaks into a trot to catch up with Loki, then slows, falling into step with the other horse. From what she can gather, Loki is less formidable king and more agreeable princess, accepting flowers from children, engaging them in conversation, being _nice_ to them. She wonders whether he's trying to influence a generation of miscreants, but she supposes it's only going to cause trouble for him later on down the line, and he's not that much of an idiot.

"So you like talking to kids?" Natasha asks disbelievingly.

"Absolutely not," Loki replies. "But as king there are certain, _tiresome_ requirements."

"Did your dad ever stop and talk to kids?"

"No, but I'm _not_ my father," he says, bristling slightly. Natasha decides it's best to leave the subject be, especially if they still have round two of the prisoner game to contend with later. She doesn't think sending him into a foul mood will help any of them, and he might just choose to revoke his offer of freedom for one of them altogether.

* * *

"Have you decided yet?"

Natasha blinks, then looks up at Loki. She knows exactly what he's referring to, it's been on her mind all afternoon, ever since they returned from their trip around the villages. She doesn't know who she should pick, doubts she will be able to walk in there with a decision set firmly in her head, or, if she does, she's willing to bet that she'll change her mind at the last minute upon seeing them all. She feels so far removed, up here, where there's fresh air and servants tending to her every need, that she doesn't feel like she can make a fair judgement. She doesn't know what's been happening down there, what words, if any, have been exchanged between them.

"No," she says softly, leaning her face against her hand and letting out a sigh. Loki begins to slowly pace around the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Natasha ignores him, and continues to consider each one of her friends in turn, attempting to weigh up the pros and cons of releasing each of them. All except for Thor, of course, who is off limits precisely because he was her first, unquestioned choice. She wonders whether Bruce would be relieved of his cuffs if he were freed, or whether he would have to sit at the breakfast table with Loki and try not to lose his temper (and his hands) in the process. He might be safer in the cells come to think of it, especially now that they're being supplied with more food. As for Jane, she knows she will be furious if she is parted from Thor, that she will argue with Loki until he tires of her and throws her back into the dungeons. But, at the same time, she's got one hell of a brain on her, and she's been to Asgard before. Maybe she would be a more valuable asset than Loki realises. Maybe he'll leave them alone if they talk loudly enough about tedious things, but Natasha has a horrible feeling he would see through that pretty damn quickly.

"Maybe you should take a nice hot bath to ease your decision making process?" Loki suggests, pausing at the side of her chair, looking down at her.

"Already had a bath today," she tells him.

"Oh," he replies, and there is the slightest hint of disappointment in his tone.

"Sorry, you missed the show," she says sarcastically, glancing up at him.

"I'm sure I'll catch it tomorrow," he murmurs, and Natasha makes the conscious decision that he most certainly _won't_ catch it tomorrow. If she's going to have a fellow inmate released, she's not going to risk them finding out about what's been going on, no way. It'll only add fuel to the fire, and that's not what she needs right now. And besides, from a matter of personal pride, the fewer people that know, the better.

She continues to think hard on her options, her frustration bubbling away as she comes back to the same names and faces time and time again. How is she meant to pick just one? She knows that if she picks Tony she can't rule out that he won't head straight back to Earth to be with Pepper, and she can't _blame_ him for that, she can't begrudge him that just because she doesn't have anybody to go home to. But, at the same time, she needs someone who'll be willing to play Loki's game, and Tony, as she knows all too well, does _not_ play well with others. So if that rules him out, then that still leaves four more to choose from.

She knows her default choice should be Clint, knows that she should get him out of that cell so he can get his head straight, but at the same time, she's not sure he'll be able to get his head straight until he's back on Earth. He'll probably try and kill Loki as soon as he has a chance to (and again, she wouldn't be able to _blame_ him) but that would, at the very least result in him being thrown back into his cell, and at the worst, sentenced to death.

By the time they're descending the steps to the dungeons, Natasha's stomach is churning. She still hasn't made up her mind, despite telling Loki otherwise. She just wants to get it over and done with, because if she delays any more, the person in question might have to spend another unnecessary night on the dungeon floor, and that's not fair. She hopes that an answer will spring forth when she sees them, that things will be blindingly obvious, but when she steps into the bright lights of the dungeon, she is still just as confused as she has been all day.

"Good evening," Loki says silkily, drawing the attention of them all. Natasha looks over to her vacated cell, her drapes still pulled to one side, her bed unmade as though nobody has touched it since she departed yesterday.

"Natasha?" Jane calls, peering through the glass front of her cell, trying to get a view of them both. "Is that you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Natasha says, stepping to her right so that Jane can see her properly. "I'm fine."

"Natasha has been given the opportunity to earn freedom for one of you," Loki says softly, though they are all listening carefully to his words. Her eyebrows draw together at the use of the phrase _earn freedom_. She hasn't _earned_ anything for them. It was handed to her, minimal effort required. But of course he can't resist stirring things up, and at his words, the atmosphere in the dungeon changes sharply, interest and tension piquing.

"Who have you chosen to release, dearest Natasha?" Loki asks, sarcasm lacing his last two words as he turns to her, fixing her with a piercing gaze. She stares back, and after a moment, his gaze drops from her face, his eyes trailing down her body and then back up again, his smirk growing ever more pronounced. She knows he's only doing it because it'll rile the others, knows that they will gossip about it after they leave, come up will all sorts of possibilities as to what _earning freedom_ could possibly entail.

She looks around the cells, from Thor, who seems to know that he is out of the question for release, because he gives her a sad, knowing smile, then to Jane, who minutely shakes her head, then across to Bruce, slumped tiredly in the corner of his cell, though he looks a little better today than he did yesterday, then across to Tony, watching her every move, then Steve and finally to Clint, who is refusing to give either of them his attention, though Natasha knows he is hanging off of every word, registering every breath.

"Well?" Loki presses. "We don't have all day, you know. Well, I suppose everyone _else_ does, but we've got plans."

"Steve," Natasha blurts out, without thinking. She lets the idea sink into her mind, then, deciding that it's the best she can do in a bad situation, she nods, ignoring Clint's disbelieving shake of the head. She looks up to Steve, who is staring her as though she has lost her mind. "I choose Steve."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Sorry it's been a while. Chapter 11 was difficult and it is a _beast_. Hope you enjoy this one. :)

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Are you out of your _mind_?"

Loki sniggers as they stride along the corridor, and Natasha turns to Steve with a frown.

"No, why?"

"Well why'd you pick _me_? Out of everybody? I was _fine_, I didn't need to come out, you should have picked - "

"I picked _you_," Natasha says firmly, cutting him off. "Deal with it."

Steve shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, then turns to Loki.

"What the hell's going on?"

"You're free," Loki tells him. "And I shall now show you to your sleeping quarters where you can clean yourself up before dinner."

"Natasha, what kind of - "

"Just go with it," she tells him, not wanting to say anything else in front of Loki. With any luck they'll be given an opportunity to talk later, in private. From the corner of her eye, she sees Loki's smug smile, but she knows she can't react, lest he throw Steve back into the dungeons. She's not sure that Steve has the same grace as her, and now that he's out, she's pretty sure he will be used as leverage at every available opportunity. Thankfully, she thinks he is the most likely to keep his cool, even with Loki's jibes and taunts. He's also most likely to hang around to help the others, and apart from that, he was the only one holding the others back from her when she was stuck down in the dungeons herself.

Steve remains silent for the rest of the journey, having taken her words to heart, and soon they arrive at a set of arched doors, not unlike the ones that lead to Natasha's chambers. Loki pushes them open and gestures for Steve to go inside.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says. "Someone will collect you for dinner shortly."

Steve frowns, and doesn't enter the room.

"You must be hungry, Captain, the longer you delay, the longer it is before you get to eat."

"It's fine," Natasha says, placing a hand on his arm. "Really. This bit isn't a trap."

"_This bit_?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow. "There are traps later on?"

"Well," Natasha says with a shrug. "Think who we're dealing with."

"So distrusting…" Loki says slowly. "After I practically handed you your escape on a silver platter…"

"As a part of your game," Natasha argues. "But," she says, taking a deep steadying breath, keeping her temper in tact. "Let's just talk at dinner. Steve, you're fine. I'll see you in a little while."

After some silent hesitation, Steve gives a single nod, then turns his back on them, stepping into his room and closing the door behind him. Natasha turns to Loki and releases a sigh.

"So what now? Steve's out, what about the others?"

"I'll see you at dinner," Loki tells her, turning on his heel and heading off down the corridor, leaving her standing alone outside Steve's door. She rolls her eyes frustratedly, wishing that for once he would give her a straight answer, but no, apparently that's too much for him. It's beyond his remit, and she wonders whether there's some stupid Asgardian spell cast on him that prevents him from being honest, or whether he really is just the biggest asshole in the entire universe.

She waits until he's out of sight, then quietly knocks on the door before pushing it open just enough that she can slip inside. The bathroom door on the far wall is open, steam clouding the air as the bath taps churn out water.

"Steve?" she calls softly, not wanting to alert anyone in nearby rooms.

He appears in the doorway, having already stripped off his grubby shirt. He's lost a lot of weight, his ribs more pronounced than usual, his arms more slender, and it's no surprise. She recalls reading in his file that his metabolism is four times faster than a normal human's. She doesn't know how he's managed to stay the sanest of the lot of them. Logic dictates that he must be suffering the most.

Maybe that's why he was chosen for the program in the first place.

"You alone?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He stares at her for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders. "What's the deal?"

"He's playing a game," Natasha tells him. "Revenge for New York, I guess."

"Right," Steve says, letting out a sigh. "Any idea how it's gonna turn out?"

"I don't think he wants to kill us," she tells him slowly. "When he heard Bruce wasn't handling the food situation he sent down extra."

"That was you?" Steve asks, his expression brightening at this new piece of information. She wonders if he's been telling everybody that it was her they had to thank for it, if he's been defending her in her absence.

"No," she replies. "Sif. She's uh…" her lips spread into their first smile since the trip down to the dungeons. "Well, she's a good influence on him. It's just important she doesn't find out about it."

"Right…" Steve looks up to the ceiling, arching high above their heads and carved with beautiful, swirling patterns. "And this murdering psychopath is now king of one of the most powerful worlds in the universe?"

"He's good at it," Natasha says, a little too quickly for her own liking. "I mean…" she says, more softly now as she slowly runs a hand through her hair. "He takes pride in it. He's doing a good job."

"Is this a joke?" Steve asks uncertainly, taking a few steps towards her. "Natasha, this guy is - "

"The rightful king. No one has any complaints. Well, except us, but this isn't even our _world_. I don't think we get a vote."

"No kidding," Steve sighs, looking around the room again, his eyes drinking in every single detail. "This place is amazing…" he murmurs. "He's trying to lull us into a false sense of security, right?"

Natasha shrugs. "I don't know."

Steve doesn't say anything, and moves over to inspect the bed, brushing his fingers against the soft bedspread, then prodding the plump feather pillow. He shakes his head in disbelief, as though he has long since forgotten what comfort looks and feels like.

"I uh…" he says slowly, turning his attention to Natasha, his hand falling limply by his side. "I have a question. And you don't have to answer it if you don't want to…but I gotta ask."

Oh good. These are her favourite kinds of questions. The ones that will likely cause offence or dig up unpleasant memories. She's pretty sure she's going to take the not answering option, but really, it's Steve. Steve who stood by her while she was locked down there with them, being gifted with food and comfort for the sole purpose of making the others jealous. Maybe she does owe him an answer, whether she wants to say the words out loud or not.

"How did you…_earn_ my freedom?"

She sighs, her suspicions about the question topic correct. It is a tricky one to navigate, because Loki is feeding the others carefully chosen words for a reason, and if she breaks the spell by telling Steve the truth she might jeopardise any positive progression in the game. Her moves need to be small, subtle, just enough to slip under Loki's radar, or at least not concern him if he notices them. She thinks being honest with Steve however might set off a blaring klaxon, and she will be forced to go to jail without passing Go, and without collecting her two hundred dollars.

"I'm playing his game," she says at last. "Everything works better if you cooperate."

Steve frowns. "So, you don't have a plan, or anything? You're just waiting it out?"

Natasha shrugs. "He decides the next move. We get to decide how to play it. There's two of us out now though, only five left." She glances over at the bathroom, and the air is now dense with steam. "I think your bath might be ready," she tells him. He nods and turns away from her, heading into the bathroom and closing the doors. Natasha sits down in an ornately carved armchair and sighs. At least what she said wasn't a complete lie, and could be interpreted in any way Steve wants. She hopes he realises that she hasn't stooped as low as Loki has suggested, but if he has, the only consolation is that he'll keep his mouth shut about it, and will never judge her, not even privately, inside his own head.

There is a knock at the door and Salme enters, a pile of neatly folded clothes in her arms.

"Oh," she says, bowing her head and curtseying. "I was looking for the Captain's room?"

"Yeah, this is it," Natasha tells her. "He's taking a bath, just leave them on the bed."

Salme nods, obeying orders, and once the clothes are arranged, she looks to Natasha, her hands clasped in front of her. "Anything else I can do, for you or the Captain?"

"No we're good, thank you," Natasha replies.

Salme nods and starts towards the door.

"Don't tell Loki I was here, will you?"

Salme pauses, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"I mean, if he asks, don't lie. Don't get yourself into trouble. But if he doesn't ask…just keep it to yourself, okay?"

Salme nods, then leaves the room without another word, the door clicking quietly shut as Natasha stretches out her legs, hands resting on her stomach, as she closes her eyes, exhaling softly. She knows Steve was disappointed with her lack of a plan, and she would have loved to have been able to provide him with one, but short of burning Asgard to the ground, which isn't _really_ going to help anyone, she has no idea what to do. She's great at devastation, marvellous at exit strategies when it's only her own exit at risk, but this is entirely different. She's had the burden of everybody else's freedom placed upon her shoulders, and while she knows they're all big enough and ugly enough to look after themselves, it's Jane's imprisonment that troubles her the most. She's a civilian. She's not a fighter, not a soldier, not a superhero, she's a _scientist_. She is the innocent bystander in all of this, and as a result she is most likely to become collateral damage at some point down the line. Natasha dreads to think what kind of chain reaction that would set off - Thor singlehandedly waging war on Asgard for a start, the last, tenuous threads of his relationship with Loki snapping in an instant.

She tries to think of other things, more pleasant things, like what will be the first thing she does when she's back on Earth. Maybe she'll have a bath in peace (though her surroundings will be decidedly less glamorous) or perhaps she'll order a pizza. She doesn't think pizza's on the menu up here, which is a shame, because the mere thought of one is enough to make her stomach growl.

A short while later, the bathroom door opens, and Natasha can hear the sound of the water draining away. She opens her eyes to see Steve, soaking wet, padding across the floor towards the bed, fluffy towel secured around his hips.

"That bath's really something, huh?" he says, picking up his clothes and turning towards the folding screen in the corner of the room. "Could spend all day in there."

"Yeah," Natasha says as he disappears behind the decorative panels, hanging his clothes over the top of them while he dries himself. He appears a few minutes later, his hair roughly towel dried but still a little damp, wearing the clothes that Salme laid out for him. Natasha can't help it. She bursts into laughter at the sight of him. She can't remember the last time she laughed, and even Steve's expression of dismay isn't enough to subside her giggles. She's used to seeing him loose slacks, but the charcoal coloured trousers provided by Salme are rather form fitting, while his shirt is loose, navy in colour and wraps around him, secured at his left side with a carefully tied knot.

"Is it really that bad?" he asks, glancing over to the mirror and pulling at his trousers, as if somehow it'll make them magically baggier.

"Look," Natasha says, her laughter dying down. "I know you're from a different time, but I never realised it was the middle ages."

Steve juts his jaw in an expression of displeasure as Natasha sniggers, his eyes looking towards the ceiling as he takes a deep breath.

"Yeah well you're one to talk, _Rapunzel_."

"Hair's not long enough," Natasha says taking a lock between her fingers and waving the neatly snipped ends at him. Steve sighs and begins fiddling with his cuffs self consciously, and Natasha's smile fades. "You look fine," she says. "Everybody here dresses like it. You'd feel more ridiculous in your spandex, believe me."

He rolls his eyes at this, and she grins again, but manages to keep her laughter at bay.

"It's okay for you," he says grumpily, giving up on his shirt cuffs and sinking down onto the bed, forearms resting on his knees. "You look like a damn princess, I look like…the village _idiot_."

"No you don't," she tells him. "You look fine. If I squint you could almost look like a dashing prince."

He shakes his head at this, but his lips curve into a smile. As inconvenient as the clothes are, especially for her when the hem of her dress grazes against the ground as she walks, a constant trip hazard, Asgardian haute couture really is the least of their problems. She has a sneaking suspicion that they could be provided with clothes more suited to them, more like the ones they arrived in, but she supposes that it is another way for Loki to put his stamp on them, to remind them that they're in _his kingdom_ now, and they're under his rule until he sees fit to release them entirely. Not only that, but she can guarantee that if the others see both her _and_ Steve in Asgardian costume it'll be a talking point. Her dress was enough of a talking point on its own, but Steve embracing the new style? _Captain America_? That's a _whole_ new development, one that Natasha is sure will keep them occupied for hours.

There is a knock at the door, and Salme enters again, curtseying before she looks up at the pair of them. "Dinner will be served shortly. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, sure," Natasha says, standing up. She turns to Steve, who is looking at Salme with an expression of distrust, but when Natasha gives him a meaningful look, he stands up, smoothing out his shirt and fiddling with the position of the knot at his side, then heads over towards the door. Salme leads the way, and Steve doesn't seem to be in a talkative mood, so instead of listening to the echoes of their footsteps, Natasha decides to engage Salme in conversation.

"Had a good day?" she asks, knowing it sounds completely lame, but really, what is she _supposed_ to ask? She has no idea what Salme gets up to, what her life is like, if she has a family or not, so she has to settle for something stupid and meaningless. But, at the very least, her words chase away the silence, and Salme is happy to talk.

"Yes, thank you," she says politely. "I heard the king took you out to the villages today?"

"Yeah," Natasha says. "It's beautiful out there, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," Salme says with a smile. "I grew up on the other side of the western hills and it's gorgeous there in the summer. The sunset is truly spectacular."

Steve glances across at Natasha and she realises she's going to have to take a moment to explain to him that not everybody in the palace is responsible for holding them captive, that the maids are just maids, the cooks are just cooks, the guards are just guards, and that Sif, Volstagg, and Fandral are all just doing as instructed by their king. The only enemy they have is Loki, and it's important he understands that. It's important they all understand it, because she thinks, in the claustrophobic dungeons, they have forgotten that.

Salme pushes open the door to the dining chamber and stands aside, allowing them to enter.

"Thanks," Natasha says quietly as she passes her. Salme smiles, and Steve manages a curt nod in her direction before the door is closed and they are tasked with finding their seats. Things have moved around a little since breakfast, though Sif, Volstagg, and Fandral are in their usual seats, along one length of the table. Loki's large golden chair is waiting at the head of the table for its owner, which leaves the two seats on the far side for Natasha and Steve. She circles around the table, Steve following her, then sits in the chair nearest Loki's figuring it might be a good idea to put some distance between him and Steve.

"Hey," she says to the others. Sif looks up and smiles, and Volstagg gives her a merry wave, though he is rather preoccupied with the platters of food laid out on the table. He is managing to contain himself however, though Natasha notes that he is sitting on his hands to keep himself from starting early.

"Good evening, my dear!" Fandral says brightly, before turning to Steve. "And you must be the Captain!"

"Steve," he replies, some of the stiffness leaving him, though he still doesn't look happy. "Just Steve."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance my good man," Fandral says cheerfully, before adding in a lower voice: "Nothing personal about the old prison thing, orders from on high."

"Right," Steve says, tapping his fingers against the arms of his chair. He's nervous, but Natasha knows that that will pass when he realises that everything _is_ just a game up here, that he doesn't need to be checking over his shoulder for sudden attacks, or testing the food for traces of poison.

"Speaking of which…" Sif murmurs as the door behind them opens and in walks Loki, a young maid with long golden blonde hair at his heel, her eyes filled with tears.

"Bring him in," Loki says quietly to her. "Take him to the healers."

"My liege, he cannot _travel_," the girl says, her voice cracking as she dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Well take the healers to _him_," Loki says impatiently. "Have Swain ready a carriage for them, they're at your disposal, and should any of them question it, send them to me."

"Thank you my liege, _thank you_," she says, looking as though she is about to burst into sobs. She backs slowly towards the door and Loki turns to look at her.

"Well make haste," he says obviously. "Time is of the essence, is it not?"

The girl nods and hurries for the door, the sound of her rapid footsteps fading into the distance as Loki takes his seat.

"What's going on?" Sif asks.

"Good evening," Loki says sarcastically, bestowing a withering look upon her.

"Good evening," Sif replies, unperturbed. "What's going on?"

"You have to know everything, don't you?" Loki says as he begins to help himself to food. As soon as the first piece of chicken touches his plate, Volstagg dives in at the other end, wasting no time in piling his plate high with a mountain of food. Loki shakes his head, then turns his attention back to Sif, who is still waiting expectantly for an answer. He sighs and puts down his fork. "Her father is sick. Alert everybody in the kingdom, as soon as you can." He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his wine, then sets his goblet down. Sif is smiling at him now.

"You're sending out the healers?"

"_Yes_," he says through gritted teeth.

Sif lets out a small breath of laughter, then turns to Fandral. "He's gone soft in his old age, hasn't he?"

"Well we all know the king to be generous," Fandral says, trying his best not to get involved. Sif rolls her eyes and thumps him on the shoulder, causing him to choke on his food, and Volstagg laughs heartily as Fandral's face turns red. He coughs a few times, and soon his airway is clear, and he picks up his goblet, draining his wine.

"It's as much for my benefit as it is hers," Loki says coolly as he cuts up his chicken. "If the old goat dies then she'll have to have a day off for the funeral and it'll disrupt the work schedule, and, by extension, my comfort."

"Okay," Sif says with a shrug. "But I still think you're going soft."

Loki ignores her. "Captain, eat. You must be hungry."

"I wanna talk business," Steve says. Natasha looks over to him, his hands resting neatly in his lap, his plate and cutlery untouched.

Loki shakes his head. "Breakfast is for business," he says. "Dinner is for pleasure. Come now, you're looking incredibly thin. We can talk business tomorrow."

Steve glances at Natasha, and she gives him an encouraging nod. They won't make any progress here, not when Loki has shut down the idea of talking about the others. He has just released one of them after all, so perhaps it is a little too soon. She understands Steve's concern, and his distrust of Loki is ten times more pronounced than her own, his contact with him having been limited since their arrival in Asgard. After a moment, Steve sighs, and begins helping himself to food.

"That's it," Loki says approvingly. "There's no need to get on your high horse, you do know the others can't see you, don't you?"

Steve's grip on his fork tightens, his knuckle bulging under his skin. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well," Loki says, leaning back in his chair, his lips curved into a smirk. He puts down his cutlery and steeples his fingers, his eyes fixed on Steve. "You all strode in here, bold as brass, your delusions of superiority set firmly in place. You were all so _sure_ of yourselves."

Natasha stops eating and glances over to Sif, who for once, appears to not be interested in the conversation, and instead is focusing her attention on her food.

"And?" Steve says defiantly, roughly cutting up his potatoes, his knife and fork scraping against his plate.

Loki's eyes are alight with pleasure, and Natasha knows that no good will come of this conversation. "Look how quickly you fell into disarray," he says. "_All of you_. How soon you cast out Natasha, branded her a _traitor_, and it all started with a single piece of _cheese_."

"Nobody ever said - "

"Oh _rubbish_, Captain," Loki says impatiently, leaning forward. "I have eyes and ears everywhere. She hasn't been in those cells twenty four hours a day. _She_ may not have heard it said, but that doesn't mean that nobody _said it_. Stop trying to protect her feelings, she's an adult."

"Nobody said the word _traitor_," Steve argues. "No one."

"Agent Barton…" Loki murmurs. "When there was a discussion about how she'd switched sides for her own interests before now." He looks at Natasha, giving her a false expression of sympathy, but Natasha isn't interested in that. She wants to know what else Steve has kept quiet about.

"What else has he said?" she asks coolly.

"Hawkeye's a _good guy_," Steve tells her. "He's stressed as hell and locked up and given history he's taking it worse than the rest of us so don't - "

"What else has he said?" Natasha repeats.

Loki chuckles and resumes eating, and Natasha closes her eyes. She's an idiot. It's so _easy_ for him to tear them apart, even her and Steve, who have handled the experience better than any of them. Even over dinner he can drive a wedge between them, with a few carefully chosen words.

"Well," Steve says awkwardly. "You know he doesn't mean any of it, it's just - "

"It doesn't matter," Natasha says. "It's fine." She forces a smile onto her face and tucks into her food. Like she told Steve earlier, Loki is making the moves in this game, and all they have to do is decide how to play.

She is not going to play into his hands. That, she is sure of.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I have had an uber busy week this week, hence the delay, but hopefully I'll be able to update again soon. This chapter is a long one though, so it should sustain you until the next one. ;)

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Nobody says much at all, though Natasha can tell that Steve is anxious to move on to discussing the business which Loki was so keen to avoid last night, but he's not given even the smallest window of opportunity.

"I forgot to ask," Sif says when she's finished her food. "How was your tour of the villages yesterday?"

"It was…" Natasha pauses, trying to find the right word, and Loki looks up at her curiously, awaiting her answer. "Enlightening."

"How so?" Loki asks, sitting up straighter, his arms resting on the table.

"Well," Natasha says, fiddling with the stem of her goblet. "I learned that Asgardian kids are the brattiest in the entire universe…"

"I thought she was funny," Loki says smoothly. "Don't get upset just because your lifespan is pitiful in comparison to ours."

"Loki was a real princess," Natasha tells Sif, ignoring Loki's comment. "Accepting flowers, telling her she had a pretty name…"

Sif smirks, and Loki raises an eyebrow at Natasha. She doesn't let it faze her however, and she continues, stirring up trouble in a way that she thinks he might even approve of, were he not the butt of the jokes.

"She was asking about him having a queen as well," Natasha says pointedly to Sif. Fandral glances up, meeting her eye, his lips twitching in amusement. "And I had a suggestion that I thought was very appropriate."

"And having thought about the matter," Loki says clearly, cutting Natasha off before she can cause him too much embarrassment. "I think a much better idea would be to make you my queen."

Everybody pauses, their attention on Natasha and Loki, and even Steve seems to have forgotten all of his questions about the current situation, his eyes flicking between the two of them as he waits for one of them to say something.

"Not a chance," Natasha says with a smile, not wanting to seem like his suggestion has filled her with dread (which it has, it most very certainly _has_). She takes her napkin from her lap and places it carefully on top of her empty plate, focusing all of her attention on not letting even the smallest muscle twitch and give her uncertainty away. There is a sick, churning sensation in her stomach, because she knows that he is bringing up the idea for a reason. It's not just a matter of deflection, there's much more to it than that.

"I could offer you the freedom of your friends, in exchange for your hand in marriage. Are you so selfless that you would take it?"

From the corner of her eye, she sees Steve stiffen next to her, his expression hardening at Loki's words. Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You do realise that you would then be stuck with me, right? Are you sure you've thought this through?"

"But as dear little Disa pointed out," Loki says softly, leaning forwards and taking Natasha's hand in his own. He brushes his thumb across her knuckles and grins, his eyes fixed on hers. "Your pathetically limited life span would see that the whole sorry affair lasted all of, what, sixty, maybe seventy years? That's _nothing_ to me. And if you drive me towards such spite, I will consider it time well _spent_."

He drops her hand, and it lands on the table with a dull thud, a silence falling over them that is so sharp that Natasha is sure that nobody in the room is even breathing.

"Alternatively," Loki says, pausing to take a sip of his water, "the Captain can choose somebody to free this evening."

Natasha breathes a shaky sigh of relief and vows to tread more carefully from now on. He is so changeable, and so sensitive over certain, bizarre things that dealing with him is like trying to handle a bomb with a lit fuse. It's only a matter of time before he explodes, and she doesn't want to be in the fallout zone when he does. She certainly doesn't want to have to pay sixty years of penance if she pushes him at just the wrong moment.

"Just like that? I just get to choose?" Steve asks incredulously.

"Just like that," Loki confirms, now completely amiable, as though his exchange with Natasha had never happened. "Though there is something I wish to show the both of you that may help inform your decision."

Natasha's curiosity piques at this, and she finds her concern settling down, replaced instead with interest, as Loki manages to avoid answering nearly all of Steve's questions.

* * *

"This is how you've been spying on us?"

"Oh yes, it's all very clever," Loki says smugly.

Natasha frowns at the small golden dais and circles around it, taking slow, steady steps. Steve hangs back, his arms folded across his chest, shoulders squared, his eyebrows drawn together in distrust. She knows he's suspicious of everything that Loki does, but after all of the lectures, all of the moral high ground that Loki has taken, she's sure that he's just playing with them all to make a point. There would be no joy in it for him if he just killed them, and she knows that if that was his end game, he would have had it all finished within the first twenty-four hours. He certainly wouldn't have strung it out and released two of them with a view to releasing a third this evening. He's playing a much different game to that which he was playing in New York. New York was a mess, New York was a house party that got out of hand in his eyes. He's an adult now, he's got responsibilities as the king, and as such, he's going to be playing a much more grown up game with them, and if he's going to hold on to that moral high ground which he is still enjoying the novelty of, then he can't possibly kill them.

She realises quickly that she's trying to convince herself that things are going to be okay, that it would be safer for her to be more like Steve, and suspicious of anything and everything that Loki has on offer. But at the same time, she doesn't want to snap any potential olive branches in two. He's so hard to read, and she knows that he could flip at any moment, turn the tables and pull the rug from under their feet. She's found that general compliance has worked so far, but now she has to be careful not to slip into a false sense of security (as he is probably intending her to) because even though it feels like she is indulging a spoiled child most of the time, the fact is, he's hundreds of years older than her, and he's been playing these games all his life.

"This should help you in your decision, Captain," Loki says, climbing the steps and coming to rest in the carved golden circle on the top of the dais. "Join me, both of you." He beckons them over and Natasha looks across at Steve, who has shown no intention of moving at all. She bites her lip, then, deciding that nothing is going to happen until they do as Loki pleases, she steps up to join him.

"Come on," she says softy. "Let's get it over with."

Steve fixes her with a look that asks if she's sure she knows what she's doing, and after a slow, subtle nod from her, he lets out a sigh and walks forward, quickly climbing the steps and joining them on top of the dais. He's tall enough to look Loki in the eye, something which Natasha dearly wishes she was able to do at certain moments, and bestows an icy gaze upon him. Loki merely grins at him, unfazed by his outright disdain.

"You might want to close your eyes, the first time can leave you feeling a little…nauseated."

Natasha doesn't close her eyes, and she glances up at Steve, who is stubbornly keeping his eyes open too. In her peripheral vision, she sees Loki smirk.

"Fine," he sighs. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Natasha doesn't get a chance roll her eyes at his smugness. There is a blur of green light and suddenly her head is spinning, her vision swimming, and she grabs on to the nearest solid thing as fluid rushes in her ears and she struggles to keep her balance. She stumbles, but a strong hand grips her firmly by the upper arm and holds her in place, and then, without warning, the feeling subsides quickly, though her stomach is still churning, her nerves tingling unpleasantly from the horrible sensation.

She forces herself to focus on her surroundings, bright, white, and with harsh lights. It doesn't take long for her to realise that they're back in the dungeons, but it is a few moments before she realises that she's steadying herself against her Loki, and that it's his hand wrapped around her arm. She moves away from him quickly and turns to find Steve, trembling hands pressed to his face as he takes deep, shaky breaths. Natasha opens her mouth to speak but Loki presses his hand over it, silencing her. He gives her a severe look and holds a finger to his lips before he glances up to Steve, and any demands for an explanation die in his throat.

"They can't see us," Loki murmurs, just loud enough so that Steve can hear. "And your mortal friends will know nothing of our presence here. Thor may detect us, however, and none of us want that."

"Why do none of _us_ want that?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I may revoke any and all hospitality extended to you, Captain."

"They should know they're being spied upon," Steve hisses, keeping his voice down despite his aversion to following Loki's orders.

"They probably already _do_," Natasha whispers, pulling Loki's hand away from her face. "You're not honestly telling me they think he's just letting them rot in peace down here?"

Loki looks between the two of them, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed smile at their argument. Steve shrugs his shoulders and buries his hands in his pockets, then looks towards his empty cell. Loki straightens up, and a strange, neither here nor there feeling washes over Natasha. She can hear the conversation of the others, loud and clear, though it still somehow seems distant. It's Clint that's speaking however, and Natasha slowly approaches his cell, where he is pacing back and forth, his hair ruffled from the number of times he has run his hand through it in frustration.

"You _heard_ what he said," he says darkly. "She _earned_ Cap's freedom. How the hell d'you think she did that? What could she possibly have had to offer him?"

"Dude, now is _not_ the time to be getting jealous over your girl, if she's getting people out of here - " Tony isn't allowed to finish his sentence.

"I'm not _jealous_," Clint argues. "Ever since we got here she's been _different_. She was playing a game before we even _reached_ the cells, didn't say a word to any of us. She _always_ tells me when she's got a plan, but not this time. This time she's been out for herself."

"How can you say that when we're getting _fed properly_ now?" Jane demands, striding to the front of her cell in order to lock eyes with Clint. "She got out of here, she got _Steve_ out of here, and now we're getting real food. She's got a plan, I _know_ she has."

"We've always got _less_ than her though," Clint retorts. "Haven't you _noticed_? We only get fed once she's got freedom. You get the occasional bath when she was getting them _daily_. She's scattering the crumbs of her leftovers out for us. We're not getting a real cut of _anything_ she's got. Don't try and tell me she's fighting tooth and nail for us. You don't _know her_, Jane. She's not the little angel you think she is."

She wants to reach through the glass and shake him, tell him he's an idiot, that he should never have doubted her because it's _her patience_ and her ability to fucking _talk_ to their jailer that has led to both her and Steve being freed, with another one of them to follow with any luck. She hates how this cell, and Loki's presence has made him lose sight so completely of what's important, of who his friends are, and who he can trust. It seems that the one person he can't trust in this dungeon however, is himself.

"Either way, Steve's out too," Jane says firmly, folding her arms and staring defiantly at Clint.

"Yeah, and how d'you think she _got_ him out? How d'you think she _bargained_ with Loki? How d'you think she _earned_ Steve's freedom?"

"You know, even if what you're suggesting is _true_, she's still _getting people out of here_. And you know what, if she's doing that, and she's doing it for _us_, rather than because she actually _wants to_ then that's all the worse and the last thing she's going to need is you turning your back on her. If she's sacrificing herself - "

Clint laughs harshly at this. "Jane, she has _never_ sacrificed herself for anybody. She's not gonna start now."

"She was pretty concerned about you when Loki had you under his magic spell," Bruce pipes up. "Pulled a lot of strings for you, got you back, got your head straight."

"I _know_ that," Clint mumbles. "But this is different."

"How?" Bruce says. "That helicarrier was falling outta the sky, and after I'd roughed her up pretty bad, she went looking for you, so nobody else would. She went after you so you wouldn't get taken out. She went after you knowing that you'd try and kill her as soon as you saw her, and you're gonna stand there and tell the rest of us that she doesn't make sacrifices?"

Jane nods approvingly at this, straightening her back as she watches Clint, who has increased the speed of his pacing. He has nothing to say to that, and after a few more rounds of pacing, he stops in front of the wall, closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead against it. Natasha feels a hand on her shoulder, and looks up to see Steve, who is watching Clint, but then turns his attention onto her, and gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Sounds to me like you're pissed that she didn't pick you," Tony says casually. "You're pissed that she took Captain Patriotism as her _first choice_. This isn't about _us_, this is about you treating your girlfriend like shit and not liking the consequences."

Natasha lets out a soft sigh. Tony stoking the fire is exactly what the situation doesn't need. Loki is grinning as he quietly walks up and down the dungeon, his eyes lingering on Thor as he passes his cell. Thor hasn't said a word so far. He's sat in the corner of his cell, his legs crossed, hands clasped, his thick blond hair tangled and greasy after so long in captivity. His beard is rougher and thicker than normal, and he looks paler, his figure diminished from malnourishment, and Natasha wonders whether this horrible new image of his once powerful brother will shock Loki into doing something positive, but it's a long shot. A very long shot.

"She's _not_ my girlfriend," Clint says through gritted teeth. "And it's not about that at all, she's free to pick whoever she wants."

"Then why're you getting so uptight about her…you know, doing the dirty with the guy upstairs?"

"Because she's _better than that_," Clint says exasperatedly, pushing himself away from the wall and starting to pace again, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched as he skulks around his cell. "She's smart, and she doesn't need to lower herself to - "

He doesn't finish his sentence, and Natasha feels some of the tension ease out of her shoulders. She wishes she could walk right through the glass not to hurt him this time, not to knock some sense into him, but to let him know that everything is going to be okay.

"She's putting herself at risk," he continues, his voice croaky now, as though his words are having to force their way out. "The closer she gets to him, the more opportunity he has to…"

Thor looks up as Clint trails off, and he lets out a quiet sigh of understanding, though apparently he is the only one to have caught on.

"To what?" Jane asks gently.

"When he arrived on Earth," Clint says slowly, his eyes darting around his cell as he tries to focus on anything other than what he's about to tell them. "He broke into my head and took over my mind so completely that I didn't think twice about killing people. People on my own damn _side_." He opens his mouth to continue, then shakes his head and closes it, giving himself a moment to consider his words. Steve's hand is still on Natasha's shoulder, though his grip is lighter now, and she's only just aware of the weight of it. Its presence is something of a comfort, however, and although she is not normally inclined to indulging such childish things, for once, she thinks she'd like to string this one out.

"He picked me because I was _there_," Clint says at last. "I was there for the taking and so he _took me_. And I told him all about Tash, I told him _everything_. He knows what she's done, what she's capable of, knows stuff that I _swore_ I would never tell another soul…"

"But that wasn't your fault," Jane tells him, her once firmly crossed arms now held loosely at her sides, her brow creased in concern. "You couldn't help that, she knows that."

Clint shakes his head. "That's not the point," he says. "The point is, if he took me because I was _there_, imagine what he'd do to Tash."

He shuts off at this point and goes to sit in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He closes his eyes and bows his head, while Jane lets out a breath of understanding, which fogs the small patch of glass in front of her face. She looks across to Tony, who for once doesn't seem to be coming up with any unhelpful additions to the conversation. Instead he's looking down at the ground, avoiding everyone's gaze, his mouth turned down at the corners.

"I think that's enough for now. Close your eyes," Loki murmurs in her ear, and this time, Natasha takes his advice, closing her eyes and not pulling away when he takes her by the upper arm again, just in case she should lose her balance. The return journey isn't nearly as bad, and although it's nowhere near top of her list of favourite things, it's certainly not as bad as anticipated. She still feels sick and dizzy, but when she opens her eyes the feeling passes almost immediately.

"Is it a teleport?" Steve asks, stumbling down the steps of the dais then finding the nearest marble column and leaning against it, brushing his hair out of his face as he tries to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. There's a slight greenish tinge to his pallor, and Natasha thinks she would be correct in assuming he may not have been afforded the same warning that she was.

"We didn't leave the room," Loki tells him. "Not physically."

Steve nods and doesn't ask any more questions, but then his gaze falls on Natasha, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. "You okay?"

She nods, then descends the few steps to the floor. She doesn't know what she wants to do. Part of her wants to go down to the dungeons and speak to Clint, but she doesn't want to do it with an audience, and she knows that Loki would forbid it anyway. Not that that would normally stop her, but she doesn't want to jeopardise the freedom of the others just for her own selfish needs, and apart from that, she doesn't feel like she's up for the argument. She feels tired, stressed, and for the first time since she's been here, seriously worried. Her concerns are not the same as Clint's. She knows that Loki will find no entertainment in controlling her forcibly. He's past that, he'd much rather see her dance to his tune willingly, and she has been _very_ compliant so far, so there's no need to worry, is there?

Even so, she hates that Clint is down in the dungeons fretting over all this. She can take care of herself, which he must know, and she _is_ as smart as he says, because as far as she's concerned, she's quietly winning this little game, even if she is indulging Loki's ridiculous need for drama and power. She just wishes she could let him know that it's okay, that he doesn't need to shut himself off like he has been, that it's going to be okay and she's _working on it_. She wishes she could let him know that she's still on their side, and he can still trust her.

"That will probably help you make your decision, Captain," Loki says. "Choose wisely. If the next person decides to go back to Midgard, then nobody will be here to free another one of your friends."

Natasha frowns. "So it's like a chain? We have to pick the least selfish person, and then they have to do the same until we're all out?"

Loki shakes his head. "The _Captain_ has to pick the least selfish person. And then that person, without any input from you or the Captain, will have to choose another, and they won't know the risk of choosing someone selfish. You have to try and second guess everybody's decisions. If it works, all of you will, eventually, be freed. If it doesn't, then the remainder of your merry little band will rot in the dungeons for the rest of their short, insignificant little lives."

"Good to know," Steve says curtly. "We'll be getting out of here together though. We're not like you, we'll stick around for each other."

Loki grins, his eyes alight. "Of course you will," he says softly. He turns to Natasha and raises an eyebrow at her. "Ever the optimist, isn't he?"

He turns and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him, and Natasha stares at the wall for a few moments, as the distant sound of Loki's footsteps fades into nothingness. Once she's certain he's gone, she turns to Steve, who has sunk down onto the floor, his head in his hands. If they can't tell the person who they choose to free that it's paramount that they stick around to free somebody else, and not only that, but they need to free somebody who will also stick around, then they're going to have to think very carefully about who they choose, or rather, Steve is. She knows that by showing them his magic dungeon spying device, Loki hasn't revealed his entire hand yet. He will have other ways of seeing and listening, so she can't try and sway Steve's decision too much, even if he _asks_ her to help him decide.

Natasha sits down on the lowest step of the dais, her arms resting on top of her knees. Steve sighs and looks up, meeting her gaze.

"We're screwed, aren't we?" he says.

"Yeah," she replies. "We're screwed."

* * *

They go down to the dungeons together, Steve sticking close to Natasha, and when they enter, she can feel all eyes in the room land on them. Tony is the first to break the silence with a poorly disguised snigger.

"Something funny, Mr Stark?" Loki asks coolly.

"Didn't realise you were going to be bringing Robin Hood along."

Natasha fights the smile that's pulling at her lips, and she hears Steve sigh exasperatedly beside her. He tugs self-consciously at his shirt, and Natasha gives Tony a look that is very effective in wiping the smirk from his face.

"I am thrilled that you are so easily amused," Loki replies sarcastically. "What is it they say about simple minds on Midgard?"

"I don't know, I was more into my Iron Maiden."

From the corner, Bruce snorts with laughter, while Loki frowns in confusion. Natasha knows how much it must be killing him to not understand the joke, but she makes good use of his distraction by taking the opportunity to glance over to Clint's cell. He's sitting in the far corner, looking at the floor, tracing patterns with his index finger. She mentally urges him to look up, to notice her, just so she can let him know that everything's fine, but he doesn't stir, doesn't even roll his eyes while Tony and Bruce snigger away.

"We could definitely use a TV down here though," Tony says at last. "If you're feeling generous. I am _so_ behind on Dog the Bounty Hunter that it's getting out of hand."

"The Captain has been given the opportunity to free one of you," Loki says loudly above Tony's nonsense. This statement shuts him up, and his expression sobers immediately, his attention now fully focused on Steve, his dark eyes serious. "Who have you chosen, Captain?"

Steve hesitates, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh, all eyes on him. Loki narrows his eyes as he watches him, as though trying to guess his decision, and after a moment, Steve lets out a soft breath then says: "Jane."

"_What_?"

Apparently, she's not enamoured with the outcome, but Loki beckons a guard over anyway, and the glass panel of her cell slides away.

"Come along," Loki says with a smirk, his eyes not on Jane but on Thor, who is staring back at him with cold fury in his blue eyes. His jaw is twitching, and Natasha can tell that he wants nothing more than to smash through the glass and deal with Loki once and for all, and she would be quite happy to sit back and watch that happen, but unfortunately, these cells are too well designed, and Thor is very much aware of the fact.

"I'm not going _anywhere_," Jane says as the guard attempts to guide her out of her cell. "I'm not leaving Thor, no _way_."

"Jane, come on," Natasha says quietly. "Please."

Her stubbornness falters at this, her face softening, and the guard finally manages to pull her out of her cell. She shakes him off, but doesn't take any steps towards the door, and instead looks to Thor, her teeth tugging on the inside of her lower lip.

"There is much for you to enjoy outside these dungeon walls," Loki says, approaching her slowly, stopping just in front of her, blocking her view of Thor. Jane tries to side step him but he catches her, shaking his head. "You don't want to burden yourself with his miserable face. Come and join the party."

It's sad, incredibly sad, that he is stooping to such lows just to get a rise out of Thor. It's plain for anyone to see that he will be unable to drive a wedge between Thor and Jane, that not even him destroying the bifrost could do that, despite the years they were apart.

"You know just because you saved my life once, it doesn't mean I have to put up with your shit," Jane says, her voice steady as she glares up at him. Loki grins down at her, which only serves to infuriate her more, and to Natasha's surprise, Jane shoves Loki with all of her might, and he stumbles backwards, letting out a low laugh. Jane heads straight towards them, giving Natasha a questioning look, but there will be plenty of time to explain once they're outside. She won't start jeopardising things now. Steve reaches for the door handle, apparently glad to have the whole thing over and done with, but Loki is lingering by Thor's cell, his grin still set firmly in place.

"This _is_ going to be fun. First Natasha, now Jane, you know how much I love it when they're _feisty_."

Natasha lets out a heavy, exasperated sigh as Loki turns away, obviously delighted with himself, and he heads for the open door, climbing the steps rapidly, the rest of them following behind.

"Loki!" Thor calls after them, his voice booming through the dungeons. "If you lay a finger on her I'll - "

The sound of his voice is cut off when they reach ground level, the heavy door closing behind them, silencing all from the dungeons.

"Easy," Loki says smoothly as he starts walking down the corridor. "Predictable," he continues. "And yet, _still funny_." He laughs to himself, and Natasha glances sideways to Jane, who looks more confused than Natasha has ever seen her. She tries to give her a reassuring look, but she's not good at those, not very well practised, and it's probably going to take a lot more than that to settle Jane's nerves.

"Dinner will be served in an hour," Loki says, turning on his heel and continuing to walk backwards as he addresses him. He looks like a kid at Christmas, all because he managed to get what Natasha is pretty sure was going to turn into a death threat from Thor. "Natasha, you can show Jane to her room, it's the one next to yours, Salme should have already brought clean clothes for you, Jane, and now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of very important king things to be getting on with."

"You're going to spy on them, aren't you? Just to see how pissed Thor is," Natasha says, knowing full well that his excitement could lead to nothing else.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Loki asks, putting on an innocent face, though he's not even bothering to try and make it convincing enough to fool them.

"You are so transparent," she sighs.

"Only to you," he says, then he winks at her, turns, and sprints down the rest of the corridor, eager to not miss a moment of the show.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Jane breathes, once he has rounded the corner and is well out of sight.

"He's a little cuckoo," Steve says, by way of an explanation. "Or maybe a lot."

Natasha smiles, and she doesn't know whether it's because one more freed prisoner is another weight off her shoulders, or if she might, at last, be getting used to the way things work on Asgard with Loki in charge.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Apologies for the delay. Have been super busy at work and also chapter thirteen was a pain in the ass. But no matter. Hope you like this one. :)

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

If anything, Jane is even less enamoured than Steve was with the dinner set up. She wants answers, but Loki is apparently not going to give them to her.

"The Captain will tell you," he says silkily, pushing his food around his plate with his fork. "Breakfast is for business, dinner is for pleasure. No unpleasantness at the end of the day, thank you."

"Well maybe there wouldn't _be_ any unpleasantness if you just let us _go_," Jane says tartly, roughly cutting up her beef as though she's on a mission to completely decimate it.

"You _are_ free to go," Loki tells her. "I'll take you to Heimdall myself, and he can send you back to Midgard. That is _no_ problem."

Jane pauses mid-chew, and looks towards Natasha. "What's he talking about?"

"He's making a point," Natasha sighs, fiddling with the thick golden stem of her goblet. "You _can_ go, but he knows that you won't. He's…redefining freedom."

"What makes you so sure I won't go?" Jane asks, straightening up and turning her attention back to Loki. "What makes you so certain that I want to sit here and have dinner with you when I could be back home?"

"You know full well that I enjoy dining with you far less than I would enjoy telling Thor that you have abandoned him, and left him to rot in his cell. I would _love_ for you to go home, because quite frankly there are far too many mortals in my kingdom at present, but - "

"_Your_ kingdom," Jane says under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. Apparently realising that she's not going to make any progress with Loki, and that he will only antagonise her further the more she talks to him, she switches her focus to Sif, Fandral, and Volstagg. "And you guys are just gonna sit there while he takes over?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "You're just going to leave your _friend_, the _prince_, in jail when he's done _nothing wrong_ and - "

"Jane, my dear, we are honour bound to the king, and Loki _is_ the rightful king." Fandral clasps his hands together, but when Jane holds his gaze for a moment too long he looks down at his plate and clears his throat.

"Thor gave up the throne because of you," Loki chimes in softly. "Went to Midgard, abandoned his realm, and so, when my _dear_ father died, I ascended. There is nothing to be done, even if I ever _do _decide to release him. He will be a mere _prince_."

"He could start a revolution," Jane suggests. "The people will follow him."

Loki inhales sharply, his face contorting into a feigned expression of fear, but then he shakes his head, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated sorrowful pout. "I don't think they will," he says delicately with a soft grin.

"Thor's a _hero_," Jane argues. "He nearly _died_ defeating Malekith. He saved the _universe_."

"I _did_ die, saving my brother," Loki counters. "Who then went on to save the universe, admittedly, but he _abandoned _his realm, his people. All for a mortal. The budding young queens weren't happy with that for a _start_. And then when I took over, when I returned Asgard to its former glory, when the people were housed and healthy and happy, the whispers started."

"What _whispers_?" Jane demands.

Natasha's curiosity piques at this. She has heard all about how generous a king Loki has been, heard how he repaired the damage wrought by the dark elves, how he didn't scrimp on a single thing, but he's hardly mentioned Thor to her. Nor has he mentioned his so-called death. She wonders whether she might be able to wheedle it out of him. Did he _really_ die? Thor seemed convinced, but if he did, then how the hell did he manage to claw his way back to the land of the living? He's Asgardian, so she knows he's more resilient than humans are, but even so, surely death is death?

"Whispers about how the _real_ Odinson would never have been so generous. How he is, after all, his father's son, and if _he_ had taken the throne, the palace would be greater than ever, while the villages lay in ruins."

"So was your _real dad_ a generous guy?" Steve asks curiously.

"My mother was generous," Loki says coldly, and it is as though a blanket of thick ice has been draped over the table. Nobody says a word now, not even Jane, who lets out a soft sigh and stares down at her hands, clasped in her lap. To Natasha's surprise, Volstagg stops eating, despite there still being a mountain of food on his plate, but no one reacts to it. It's as though everything must stop at Loki's mention of his mother. The grief is still apparently very raw among them, even Jane, who Natasha knows barely knew Frigga. What she _does_ know is that Frigga died protecting Jane, and either Loki is reminding them of the only person he ever considered to be his true family, of her influence, and how that makes him a far better king than Odin's influence ever would have, or he is being even more heartless and cruel than Natasha had ever expected of him, and wielding his mother's death over Jane just to get her to shut up. Somehow though, Natasha doesn't think it's the latter. Perhaps it is in the way that his fingers have a small, near unnoticeable tremor when he next picks up his goblet, or the fact that he drinks more deeply than Natasha has ever seen him do, nearly finishing his wine completely, or perhaps she can see it in his eyes as he avoids looking at everyone. They dart around the room and are brighter than usual, and when he blinks, his eyes stay closed a fraction longer than necessary, as though he is trying to calm himself.

"We're done," he says after a moment, standing up abruptly. "Volstagg, put your chicken bones back on your _plate_, you're dining at the king's table, not with the pigs. If I see Kari clearing up after you one more time, you'll be fighting for a place at the trough for a _week_."

Volstagg quickly piles his discarded chicken bones onto his plate, and Loki leaves the room swiftly, the door banging shut behind him.

"I did _not_ mean to do that," Steve says quietly, ruffling his hair nervously. He turns to Natasha. "You think I should apologise to him?"

Natasha shakes her head. "Just leave it," she says. "Don't bring it up again. He'll be fine."

"Sore spot though," Steve says with a sigh. "Didn't think he had many of those."

"He _adored_ her," Sif says softly. "She gave him all the attention that Odin didn't when he was a child. She loved him for who he was, not for what he could be used for."

"_Used_ for?" Steve asks, frowning at Sif'a words. "What do you mean, _used for_?"

Fandral glances sidelong at Sif and shakes his head minutely, and Sif hesitates before she begins to speak. "You know he was adopted, of course," she begins slowly, glancing up at the doors behind Natasha, Steve and Jane, as though half expecting him to come storming back through them. "And he is of another realm, a realm that Asgard was at war with."

"That's all in the file I think," Steve says, glancing towards Natasha. "Right?"

She nods, confirming it to be true, but it seems that the file on Loki is about to get a little (or a lot) thicker, once they make it back to Earth.

"Well he was small for their kind, and weak, so Laufey, the king, abandoned him in a temple, left him to die while war was raging all around. I suppose he thought he could tell the people of his realm that the child died in battle, and then he could try again, hope for a larger, stronger heir." Sif swallows nervously, and Volstagg seems incredibly interested in the carved detailing on the handle of his knife.

"Do you really think that - " Fandral begins, but he is cut off by Sif, who doesn't seem to care for what he has to say.

"Odin took Loki in. Brought him home to Frigga and they raised him as their own. They raised him as an Asgardian, and they never ever told him. He only found out by accident that he was a Frostgiant. And then it was revealed that Odin only ever took him in to use him as a method of bringing the two realms together. Once relations between Asgard and Jotunheim broke down, thanks to Thor, it seemed that a happy peace was out of the question. In Odin's eyes, I suppose, Loki no longer held any value."

"He loved the boy," Volstagg says firmly. "He may not have shown it well, and he may have had more in common with Thor, but he _loved the boy_."

"The _boy_," Sif argues. "But not the man, not the man who was no longer a part of his plans. He cast Loki aside as soon as it became obvious that he could no longer be used as a tool."

"What _has_ he been telling you?" Volstagg asks incredulously. "And why do you take his side? He still has Thor locked up, you know."

"You remember how he changed," Sif retorts. "After that _mess_ at Jotunheim. He _adored_ Thor before that, and Odin's lies drove them apart. It affected him, and maybe it shouldn't have affected him as much as it did, but you can't deny that it destroyed him."

"And what of Thor? Locked up?"

"Loki isn't going to hurt him," Sif says impatiently. "We all know that. He took a sword right through his chest for him. Whether he died or not doesn't matter, because he still took that sword, and he didn't need to. He saved Thor. If he wanted him dead he would have dealt with Kurse and Malekith himself."

Volstagg doesn't look convinced, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Sif huffs, rolling her eyes. "You're just annoyed because he told you off about your chicken bones, _again_."

"Perhaps it's time to call it a night?" Fandral suggests tentatively, before Volstagg can snap back at Sif.

"Good idea," Sif says coolly. She turns to Natasha, Steve, and Jane, and says, "I'll see you at breakfast. Sleep well. Try not to worry, Jane, Thor will be fine."

"Thanks," Jane replies. Natasha and Steve bid her goodnight, and once she's gone, Natasha stands up, her chair legs scraping uncomfortably loud against the floor. She leaves with Steve and Jane just as Kari enters to begin cleaning up the leftovers, far more plentiful on this night than any other. They walk back to their rooms in silence, Steve departing to head down a separate corridor just before Natasha and Jane reach their own. Jane reaches for the handle on her door, but she falters, her mouth opening, breath catching in her throat as though she is about to say something. Natasha pauses, door handle turned halfway round.

"What?" she asks, trying to gauge what's on Jane's mind from the concerned expression on her face. She has that same look that does when she's puzzling over equations that don't add up, her eyebrows drawn together, her eyes dull, as though in her head she is far, far away.

"Do you trust him?" she asks after a short silence.

"Loki?"

"Yeah."

"_God no_," Natasha tells her. "But he's not…he's not like he was in New York."

"I know," Jane replies. "He wasn't like that when I came here before, either. He saved me. He saved _Thor_. Why would he save Thor just to lock him up?"

"Well if Loki was locked up and forgotten about, because of everything in New York, then he might be returning the favour, now that he's got his throne," Natasha says with a shrug. "But…" she pauses, looking down at her feet for a moment. Loki has eyes and ears everywhere, she knows, and she wonders if her theory on him and his plans will irritate him, especially in his already aggravated state. Alternatively, he might be pleased that she has seen his plans as more than that of a jealous brother, that she understands his little social experiment, and a little bit of recognition might even speed up the release of the others.

"But what?" Jane asks.

"I think he wants us to fall just like he did. Maybe not as far, but you were in there, you saw how things got, just after a few days. We're billed as Earth's mightiest heroes, but stick us in a cell for a couple of days and watch us become spoiled children. I think he wants to prove that it can happen to anybody, even the super heroes."

"I'm not a superhero," Jane says quietly.

"And you coped the best," Natasha replies. "Says a lot, doesn't it?"

Jane mulls this over, then lets out a sigh, her shoulders slumping. She forces out a smile, then opens the door to her room properly. "I'll see you in the morning," she says. "Ready for another day of Big Brother."

"Yeah," Natasha says. "See you tomorrow." She opens the door to her own room and steps inside. She blinks when she sees him, perched on the end of the chaise longue, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin as he stares into the fire. She closes the door softly, but the noise doesn't stir him. He doesn't even blink, and so Natasha slowly approaches him, sitting down on the opposite end of the chaise, her knees turned towards him, hands resting in her lap as she watches him.

He doesn't say anything, and so Natasha stares into the fire too, waiting for him to do something. She wonders whether she should let Jane know he's here, but somehow, she doesn't think she needs to. His earlier glee at provoking Thor is miles and miles away now, his face somehow paler than it was just a few hours ago, and all because of a few, seemingly harmless words from Steve. It had been a jab, certainly, and it's not often that an opportunity arises in which a jab can be made in Loki's direction. Unfortunately the jab became more of a battering ram as the words hit Loki, his chilly response opening up a whole world of hurt that he has so far kept under wraps in front of them.

"You want anything?" Natasha murmurs, looking across to him.

He shakes his head minutely, and Natasha turns back to the fire, the flames licking at the edge of the stone hearth, the crackling relieving the silence, just a little.

"Why are you here?" she asks after a while. If she's being honest, she'd like to go to bed, but she's not exactly going to do that while he's here. She wonders if he's expecting her to take a bath before bed, and whether he is banking on getting an eyeful in order to take his mind off of things. Unfortunately for him, she likes to start her day with a bath, knowing full well that he will never get up early enough to catch her, because it is the king's privilege to sleep until late and breakfast when he pleases.

"I don't know," he says hoarsely, his eyes still fixed on the fire.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asks cautiously, not knowing what help she might be to him. He's here for a reason, even if he doesn't quite understand that reason yet. Something in his mind has led him to her rooms, something has told him that things will be better if he comes to her, but Natasha isn't any _good_ with this kind of thing. She's good at breaking into places and making quick exits, she's good at interrogations, manipulation, and all those things that she was _trained for_. What she's not so hot on are all the things that she missed out on. Dealing with people genuinely is one of those things.

"Steve didn't mean anything by it," she tells him, for lack of anything else to say. "He was gonna come and apologise but I thought…"

Loki nods, then drops his hands from his face, sitting up straight and inhaling deeply. "I know he didn't," he says after a moment. "I know he was just…" he trails off, his mind clearly elsewhere, but then his eyes seem to refocus, and he blinks before saying, "I see Sif told you all about my…unusual relationship with my father."

She doesn't know how he does it, well she _does_, but she doesn't know how he managed to be so quick that he was able to spy on them seconds after leaving the room. Unless he has other ways which he hasn't shown her and Steve, which is entirely possible. Somehow, she doesn't think skirting around the edges of the room will have been top of his list after the disastrous dinner conversation.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "She mentioned it."

"I killed my real father," Loki tells her. "Invited him to kill Odin, then just as he was about to do it, I destroyed him."

"In the hope that Odin would consider you as good a son as Thor?"

"In the hope that he would consider me a _son_, rather than a stolen relic."

Natasha doesn't know what to say to this. Sif is absolutely right, the whole thing clearly devastated him, screwed him up royally, and it still nags, even more than ever, now that his mother, who he apparently adored more than any other member of his family, perhaps the person he adored most in the universe, is dead and gone.

"And your real father was king of…_Jotunheim_?" Her mouth struggles with the unfamiliar pronunciation, and she wonders whether she's gotten it right, but when Loki doesn't indicate otherwise, she assumes yes.

"Technically, I'm the rightful king of both realms," Loki tells her, stretching his legs out before him. He's avoiding her gaze again, but she doesn't take her eyes off of him. He's vulnerable at the moment, more vulnerable than he has been the entire time she's been here, and there is the slimmest opportunity that he will be more willing to release Thor and the others sooner, as opposed to later.

"You ever think about going to claim your throne?"

Loki shakes his head. "It's been made quite clear that Jotunheim doesn't want me," he says snippily, before shrugging and adding, "Not that Asgard ever wanted me until I opened up the vaults and started spending the gold. So easily swayed, aren't they?"

"Sif's warmed to you," Natasha tells him, and she doesn't know why she's trying to comfort him, when he's got four of her friends locked up in his prison cells. Instinct simply tells her to indulge his moment of low self esteem, to soothe him, to say the comforting words that his mother might have, were she here.

"She has," he concedes, nodding slowly. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"Is that why you eat with them?" Natasha asks. "Because they've accepted you as their king?"

"I eat with them because I've known them all my life," Loki tells her in a rush. "They're the closest thing I have to a family." He clenches his fist tightly, his knuckles straining under his skin, and she can tell he regrets letting that bit of information out.

"The closest thing you have to family is sitting downstairs in the dungeons," Natasha tells him, scooting along the chaise, minimising the gap between them. Loki runs a hand through his hair, shaking his long black locks out in frustration.

"Had I not died," Loki says through gritted teeth. "He would have thrown me back into that cell, no matter how many times I saved him or his _girlfriend_."

"And this is retaliation?" Natasha asks. "This is retaliation because he was certain that you would betray him? Because he was sure you would try to pull the same shit you _always have_?"

"_Not always_," Loki snaps. "There was a time when I was _happy_, you know. When I was _fine_ with being second best to Thor."

"And now?" Natasha asks. "Are you happy now? You've got your throne, aren't you over the moon?"

"I would give that throne up in a heartbeat to tell her how sorry I am," Loki says in a low, steady voice. "I would take that sword through my chest again, and die for real, if it meant that she could come back. I'd put things right, have them as they _should_ be."

"You'd trade places?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Of _course_," Loki replies. "Of _course_ I would."

It is perhaps the first time she has seen him with his guard down, and there is something so small, and so human about him that she wonders how he can be the same man who opened up the heavens and brought an army of Chitauri raining down on New York. She doesn't question his honesty now, now that she knows that that pressure point that Sif occasionally puts to good use is actually more like a gaping wound that, if he carries on the way he is, will never, ever heal.

"You've lost so much of your family," she tells him, treading carefully, considering each and every one of her words. "His first instinct when he saw you again was to _hug you_. That's not the action of a guy who hates his brother. That's the action of a guy who _loves_ his brother, even after everything that's happened. I think you'd be a fool to throw away his affections. He doesn't want your throne, he doesn't want to make you pay. I really think he'd be happy to call it quits."

"Is this how you convince the mortals to give you what you want?" Loki asks, turning to look at her at last. His guard is up again, his eyebrow arched as he studies her, but he's not angry with her, he's not even annoyed.

"You're gonna let everybody out eventually," she tells him with a shrug. "But the sooner you do it, the more there is to salvage from your relationship with Thor."

"I don't care," he says, and the words sound childish, despite his best efforts for them not to.

"Yes you do," Natasha tells him. "Of course you do. Because he's the only thing left of her, isn't he? Now that she's gone, he's the last piece of her."

"I'm going to bed," Loki says stiffly. He stands up and leaves without another word, and when the door closes, Natasha lets out a soft sigh. She doesn't know whether she's made things better or worse, but she _does_ know that she has certainly given him a lot to think about.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **I now present chapter thirteen for your reading pleasure. I am _hoping_ that the next update will be some time before next weekend, but don't quote me on that.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"So who do I pick?" Jane asks, slumping down onto the chaise longue in her bedroom. Steve glances over to Natasha, but she keeps her gaze focused on Jane. She is certain that Jane _cannot_ know. Not that they can't tell her, but that she cannot_ know_. There can be no subtle hints, no gentle encouragement towards a good choice, only her own conclusion.

"You have to choose," Natasha tells her.

Jane sighs. "And I can't pick Thor?"

Natasha shakes her head.

"Not even if I argue?" she asks hopefully, though it is plain to see that she doesn't believe anything will come of it. She's pale, her time in the dungeons having taken its toll, and her slender frame is even slimmer than usual, her face uncommonly gaunt. She's tired, and Natasha has suggested several times that they leave her to get some rest, but she has rebuffed all offers, far too concerned with the weight of her decision.

"You have Bruce, Hawkeye, and Stark left," Steve says. "Those are your three."

Jane lets out a huff a of frustration and rests her hands on her stomach, tilting her head over to look at Steve, who is far too busy staring into the fireplace to meet her eye.

"D'you want me to choose Hawkeye?" Jane asks, turning to Natasha at last, one eyebrow raised. "He's worried about you. Missing you a lot."

"He's fine," Natasha tells her in a cool tone. "Don't worry about him."

Steve gives her a sharp look, but as far as she's concerned, she's simply answering a question. She's not influencing Jane's decision because she's telling her to not make a decision based on what she thinks Natasha wants. If she hadn't replied, Jane would probably go ahead and choose Clint, just to feel like she was doing something worthwhile, that _somebody_ would be happy with the outcome. Besides, Clint is probably the last person who should be released, not because of anything he's said about Natasha, not because she's taken any of the jibes or the death glares to heart, but because he would either kill Loki on sight or head home as soon as he's able. That's the last thing they need, if she's being completely honest.

Jane sighs loudly. "There are conditions to all this, aren't there?" She looks between the two of them, and when they don't answer, she stands abruptly and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" Natasha asks, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"To talk to the _king_," Jane replies. "He's got the two of you bent over a barrel, and I want to know why."

She disappears swiftly, and Natasha turns slowly towards an ashen faced Steve, who runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh.

"Have we screwed up already?" he asks.

"No, we haven't said anything, as agreed. She's not an idiot, she was always going to ask questions." She realises she's trying to convince herself as much as she's trying to convince Steve, but she is fully aware that Loki will take any reason, no matter how inconsequential, to shake things up, to change the rules and inject a bit of excitement into his game.

"Should we go after her?" Steve asks, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, his eyes flicking towards the doorway.

"She'll be fine."

"But after last night, he might be in a really bad - "

"He's not," Natasha tells him. "And he's not angry with you. Don't worry about last night."

Steve frowns at this, and Natasha looks away from him, skewing her lips. The fact that she _knows_ that Loki is potentially listening in to every word they say makes everything so much harder. There's not a single quiet moment, nowhere they can go to have a private conversation, they are constantly being monitored. She wishes she were more familiar with the way Asgardian technology works, so she could smash anything aiding his spying and, even if not cease the spying altogether, then at least make things a lot more difficult for him. As it stands, however, he seems to be using magic to his great advantage, and she, the mere mortal, has no defence against that.

"What makes you so sure he's not angry with me?" Steve asks, and it's obvious he's fighting keep his tone mild.

She supposes it's best to come clean. Steve deserves that much, and she needn't give him all the details of what Loki told her last night. She doesn't want to blab, because if he _has_ been thinking about Thor, locked in those dungeons, if he _has_ been considering releasing him and the others, then Natasha telling everybody about his vulnerabilities, his deep seated emotional issues that have been bubbling under the surface for years, is the most certain way to ensure that he changes his mind and sentences the remaining prisoners to a lifetime of misery.

"He came by last night," Natasha says slowly. "I don't think he has many people to talk to."

"So he talks to you?" Steve's eyebrow is raised, and there's nothing in his demeanour to suggest that she's being interrogated, but she feels that familiar cool weight in her stomach that always presents itself whenever she's in the firing line.

"You know there isn't _actually_ a royal family up here, don't you? Loki _is_ the royal family. As far as Asgard is concerned, Thor's left to go to Earth, and Loki's the king. His parents are dead, there's no line of succession, no cousins, uncles, whatever. There is _just him_."

"And you," Steve adds, pacing slowly around the room. "That comment about him making you his queen, maybe it's not entirely out of spite, if he's coming to visit you late at night."

Natasha's eyebrows draw together, and she tries to keep a firm grip on her patience. She knows that he means nothing by it, but the suggestion of it still rankles. He is probably, or rather, most definitely, just looking out for her, wanting to keep an eye on the bigger picture so he knows how everything stands. She doesn't _need_ him to look out for her however, and she certainly doesn't need him to make assumptions about Loki visiting her, especially not when his thoughtless comments were the reason Loki came to her in the first place.

"We talked, he went back to his room," she says coolly. "End of story."

"Okay," Steve says with a shrug. "I was just asking."

Natasha doesn't say anything, and after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Steve makes some comment about taking a walk around the palace grounds and disappears, leaving Natasha on her own. She stays where she is for a moment, stewing in her thoughts, mulling over Steve's words and trying not to sink too deeply into negativity. She realises how it must look, Loki coming to her rooms after hours, but where else is he supposed to go? Would Steve prefer it if Loki dealt with his emotional turmoil as he has in the past, and instead of talking things through, or accepting some quiet company, he invaded another realm instead? Obviously not, but apparently Loki coming to her is a little too close to home for Steve to be comfortable with.

Perhaps Clint revealed more of her prior indiscretions than she was aware.

* * *

She doesn't know why she's ended up at his door, nor does she think it's going to do anything to improve the situation, but she wants to talk to him. She wants to know what Jane has asked, how fucked up things are or aren't because of her questions, and how much longer she's going to have to play ball with him for. She's getting tired of it now, and she's ready to go home.

His room is even more extravagant than she could have imagined. His bed is at least four times the size of her own, with a soft silky golden bedspread laid neatly over the top of it, the hem brushing against the marble floor. On the cabinet at the side of his bed, there is a tall pile of books, pages marked with shiny strips of richly coloured ribbon. Loki is nowhere to be seen, but his clothes, freshly laundered and crisply pressed, are hanging neatly by his dressing screen. They look so strange when they're not on him, rather silly and ridiculous, if she's being honest, but somehow he manages to make them work, all that green and gold which would normally be so tacky.

Her eyes fall on the door on the far side of the room, and she approaches it slowly, her ears honing in on the muffled sounds of soft, occasional splashes emanating from within. She smirks, her hand reaching out to close around the door knob, and she turns it slowly, opening the door just wide enough so she can slip into the bathroom.

The air is thick with steam, and Loki has his arms stretched out around the edge of the bath, his head resting back against the floor tiles, his eyes closed. Natasha takes a few careful steps towards him, careful not to let the soles of her shoes slap noisily against the floor, but when she sees a muscle twitch in Loki's jaw, she knows he has detected her presence.

"Are you not going to give me a moment's peace?" he drawls.

Natasha frowns, tilting her head to one side as she tries to work out exactly who he has mistaken her for. Evidently someone who has no qualms about disturbing his bath time, and also someone who he feels no need to defend himself against.

"I thought I'd turn the tables," she says softly, and Loki's eyes snap open. He turns around, water swirling with the sudden motion, and his brow creases as he surveys her.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, his eyes narrowed.

"Who did you think I was?" Natasha asks, her lips curving into a smile. She understands now why he was so fond of visiting her while she bathed. Apart from the fact that he was more than happy to watch her while she was naked, there's also a sense of authority that just doesn't lend itself to situations when both parties are fully clothed and on the same level.

"Jane," he says with a scowl. "I'm sick of the sound of her voice, I don't know how Thor puts up with it."

A warm sensation of pride fills Natasha's chest. Jane must have been relentless if she has driven Loki to hide in his bathroom, and she can't help but wonder whether he often escapes here, perhaps after a disagreement with Sif, who is probably the only one who can elicit such a reaction from him.

"What did she want?" Natasha asks, sitting down at the edge of the bath, her legs tucked neatly to one side, the soft material of her skirt pooling on the floor.

"Everything," Loki says carefully, not breaking his gaze from her. He settles himself on the opposite side of the bath, and it's only now that Natasha can see the topmost inch or so of a dark purple scar, the skin bumpy and ragged looking. He follows her eye line and glances down at it, then submerges himself deeper in the water. Apparently he's not as comfortable baring skin as she is.

"Has she picked somebody?"

Loki shakes his head. "Wanted to know all the conditions, all the details. She's very nosy."

"She's a scientist, she spends her _life_ searching for answers, what the hell did you expect?"

Loki shrugs and flicks his finger through the surface of the water, sending a handful of droplets flying into the air.

"Why are _you_ here?" he demands, changing the subject and raising his guard again.

"I don't know," she says, echoing his words from the previous evening. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but it is no more than that. At least she knows he isn't feeling sensitive over the night's events, and it seems, at least, that nobody's freedom has been jeopardised by the conversation in Jane's room earlier. She watches as beads of water slide down his pale chest, his skin glistening with the moisture and the heat. His shoulders are broader than she expected; she had always assumed that a great deal of his mass was made up of the bulky leather and metal that is part of his Asgardian get up, but it is clear that he fills it rather well. Her eyes fall to the surface of the water, steam rising through the gaps in the bubbles, and she can just about make out the dark skin of his scar, though she cannot tell how far down it goes.

"Something interesting?" Loki asks mildly.

"Does it hurt?" Natasha asks, finally glancing up to meet his eye. His face falls when he realises that she's referring to his scar, his shoulders slumping as he exhales softly and turns his head away, jaw jutting forward as he considers his answer.

"Occasionally," he says stiffly. "But I try not to let it."

Natasha smirks. Finally Loki's love for his brother has done him as much damage as Thor has endured over the years. At last, they might just be about even, except, perhaps, for Loki's stint in the dungeons, but he appears to be levelling that score anyway. Maybe he _has_ been thinking about what she said last night, although Jane's bombardment may have knocked things back a few steps. She knows him well enough to be certain that he recovers best from moments of emotional insecurity by being spiteful, but it is usually a quick fire reaction, not one that bubbles under the surface for hours or days.

"Aren't you bored of this game yet?" Natasha asks, refocusing her attention on him and, at last, tearing her eyes away from his scar.

"It passes the time. Being a king isn't as interesting as one might think."

"No?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow. "Dream better than the reality?"

"The kingdom runs itself," Loki says, lazily sliding down further into the bath and stretching his arms. He suppresses a yawn and meets her gaze with bleary eyes. "It doesn't take much effort from me."

"But you get to lounge around in that throne all day long, isn't that what you've always dreamed of?"

Loki rolls his eyes. "It's the most uncomfortable chair in the entire palace. There are a thousand other chairs I would sit in before that one."

"But don't you feel _powerful_ when you sit in it?" Natasha asks, fighting to keep the smile from her lips. He can be so sensitive to teasing, but she must take the opportunity when he is so delightfully unprepared.

"I _am_ powerful," Loki tells her sharply, sitting up straight, water sloshing around him. "I don't need a chair for that."

"Have you read a self-help book since New York? Because you seem to be _brimming _with confidence."

Loki scowls at her, and it is plain that he has no idea what a self-help book is, nor why it is relevant to their conversation. He hates it when he doesn't get the joke, even more so when he is the only one who doesn't get it, and so, as Natasha expects, he becomes frosty once more, no longer prepared to indulge her antics.

"If you could be so courteous as to leave me to have my bath in peace - "

"Like you were so courteous with me?" Natasha interrupts. To her surprise he smirks at this.

"I am the king," he says softly. "And as such, I don't have to dabble in things as tedious as courtesy."

Natasha sighs softly and gets to her feet, bored now of him. If nothing else she has passed the time, and with any luck, the next time he thinks he can escape to the sanctuary of his bathroom, he might be a little more paranoid, just as he deserves.

* * *

There are now just as many people out of the cells as are in the cells, so when the four of them enter the dungeons, Natasha no longer feels as though she is in the firing line. It is something of a relief, though when she glances over to Clint's cell, he is lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring resolutely at the ceiling. If only he would look at her, just for a moment, she could give him one of those reassuring glances, the ones they can read in each other so well, after so many years of working together. He is far too stubborn, however, and Natasha tries to ignore the sigh swelling in her lungs.

"As I'm sure you all realise by now, one of you has had your freedom earned by our lovely bunch," Loki says, his face splitting into a grin. He's enjoying the moment far too much, but, after their conversation earlier, Natasha realises that this is most likely the highlight of his day. Part of her wonders if they're best off trying to drag this game out as long as possible, because she has the horrible feeling that with Loki, boredom leads to far worse things than locking up a few superheroes to make a point.

"Jane, are you all right?" Thor asks, his hands and forehead pressed against the glass, as he tries, in vain, to minimise the distance between them.

"I'm fine," she says, offering him a small smile. "Really, I am."

Loki clears his throat. "Your choice, Jane?"

Jane's eyes linger on Thor, but then she turns away from him, facing Clint, Tony, and Bruce's cells. She chews anxiously on the inside of her lower lip, her arms folded across her stomach, but she doesn't offer a name.

"Your choice?" Loki presses, his eyes narrowing as he watches her. Natasha glances to Steve. Normally, there is a last minute panic, a few seconds of doubt that feel like they stretch on for a lifetime, but this is something else entirely.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," Jane tells him, her eyes flicking between the three cells. "Give me a minute."

"You have ten seconds, or nobody gets released," Loki says impatiently.

"_Fine_," Jane says frustratedly, then she unfolds her arms and points towards Bruce's cell. "Eenie, meenie, miney, mo," she begins slowly, her finger pointing to each cell in turn. Steve lets out a heavy sigh and buries his face in his hands, while Loki's grin grows impossibly wider. Even Clint's attention has been caught - he's sat up, his eyes fixed on Jane as she points to each of them in turn. A horrible squirming sensation fills Natasha's stomach and she realises that their plan is about to fall apart spectacularly. Apparently all of Jane's questions earlier on in the day went unanswered.

"Catch an _asshole_," she pauses to look at Loki pointedly, and both Bruce and Tony smirk. Even if they don't get out of here today, at least they will have had some entertainment.

"Unnecessary," Loki mutters, though Jane is unphased, and continues with her selection method.

"By his _untrustworthy_ toe."

In the reflection of Tony's cell, Natasha can see Thor's lips curve into the smallest of smiles.

"If he cries like a baby and complains that his life isn't fair, let him go."

Steve's eyes widen in horror, and he looks down at the floor, averting his gaze from Loki's reaction. Natasha is half expecting him to revoke the offer of a release, but while he is unusually still, he is yet to give any other indication that he is even remotely offended by Jane's words.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, mo." Jane's finger lands on the middle cell, and Tony jumps to his feet.

"Really?" he asks. "_Really_ really?"

Loki gestures for the guard to come forward and open the cell, and moments later, Tony is free. He pulls Jane into a bone breaking hug, lifting her clean off the floor, then sets her down again, and walks straight past Loki, heading for the exit.

"Not even a goodbye," Loki says with feigned sadness to the others, before he too turns towards the door and follows Tony up the steps. Jane lingers by Thor's cell, and Natasha hangs back for her while Steve rapidly climbs the steps to catch up with Tony. After a few quiet exchanges and assurances that all is fine, Jane finally breaks away from him, and the two of them slowly trudge up the stairs.

The pair of them a quiet walk around the palace grounds as the sky darkens to a rich, inky blue, and later on they head inside for dinner. When they arrive, Tony and Steve are already there, along with Sif, Fandral and Volstagg. They take their seats, and Tony is impatiently tapping his fingers against the table, eyeing up all the food on offer. Since his release, he's cleaned himself up and donned a new Asgardian outfit. He's far less self-conscious than Steve was over the whole thing, more concerned with his growling stomach, and when Loki finally shows up, Tony wastes no time in tucking in, not uttering a single word until he has sampled everything at the table. He, like everyone, has suffered from weight loss and a sickly pallor due to his time in the dungeons, but when he finally leans back in his chair and tosses his napkin onto his empty place, he looks more content than he has in all the time Natasha has known him.

"So what's the deal?" he asks, cradling his goblet of wine in his hands, his expression sleepy. "How long before I can go home?"

Loki shrugs. "You can go home now if you like," he tells him.

Tony sits up straight and puts his goblet down on the table. "What are you talking about?"

"You can go home. Heimdall will send you back via the bifrost."

"No catch?" Tony asks, raising one dark eyebrow sceptically. "You're just gonna let me go?"

"No catch," Loki tells him, deliberating over which leg of chicken he wants to choose from the mountainous platter in front of him.

"So why the hell are you guys still here?" Tony asks, looking first to Steve, and then to Natasha. "I mean, I get you hanging around for Thor, Jane, but you guys…"

"We're not going to abandon our friends," Steve says stiffly, not meeting Tony's eye. Loki has stopped chewing his chicken, and is watching him closely, his eyes narrowing with every word that leaves Steve's mouth. "That wouldn't be right."

"Of course," Tony sighs. "Captain Martyr putting us all to shame. What else should I have expected?"

"It's not about being a _martyr_," Steve says tersely. "It's about standing by your friends."

"Yeah, well this table's looking a little crowded, so you guys continue to stand by, I'm gonna head home."

Tony stands up, directing his attention towards Loki now, who cannot keep his smirk at bay. "As you wish."

Natasha isn't even surprised. She knew something had to break sooner or later, and with the choice of who to pick from the dungeons growing narrower and narrower, they were always going to wind up with somebody who would jump at the chance to head home. She can't blame Tony, he doesn't know what's at risk, and Steve's emphasis on doing the _right thing_ will only serve to push him further towards the bifrost.

"You can't," Steve says, standing abruptly and glaring at Tony. "We're all in this together, we have to stick it out."

"No," Tony argues. "We _don't_. I _have_ to go home. I _have_ to see my girl, and I _have_ to let her know that I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Just _wait_ until after dinner," Natasha says impatiently. "We're still eating."

"Sorry," Tony says. "No can do. I'll see you back on Earth." He backs away from the table and heads for the door, pulling it open wide and then slamming it shut behind him. Silence hangs over them, and Natasha looks towards Sif, whose front teeth are buried in her bottom lip. She shrugs minutely, and it seems that even she had not considered what would happen when this moment finally came.

"What was it you were saying earlier about me getting bored?" Loki asks, spooning vegetables onto his plate, a smug smile plastered across his face.

Natasha lets out a small sigh and leans back in her seat, her brain completely void of ideas. She hates him. She hates the pleasure he's getting from this. She hates the way his cutlery clinks together while he continues to eat as though everything _hasn't_ just fallen to pieces. She hates his next words, too.

"Looks like things are about to get interesting, don't you think?"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Only three more chapters left for me to write, but four to post. The end is in sight! Huzzah! Hope you enjoy this!

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The legs of Steve's chair scrape noisily against the floor as he slides back and stands up.

"You won't change his mind," Natasha says, shaking her head slowly, her index finger running along her cutlery as thoughts and ideas (all of which are useless) race through her head.

"I have to try," Steve says resolutely, then jogs towards the door, pulling it open and looking in each direction down the corridor before he darts off to the left, the slap of sole on tile echoing into the distance as the sound of his footsteps gradually fades away. Natasha looks towards Loki, the only one still eating. He doesn't give her even a moment of his attention, and so, realising that he's not going to offer up any options for freeing the others now that Tony's leaving, she gets up and hurries away from the table, following after Steve.

"This is all your fault you know," Loki says to Jane as Natasha rounds the corner. "You should have chosen better."

Natasha doesn't hear Jane's reply - she breaks into a sprint, determined to catch up with them before Steve can say anything to worsen the situation. She knows the pull of Pepper will mean that there is little that can be said to convince Tony to stay, but the game is nearly over, he just has to stick it out a little longer. Only a _day_, only long enough to choose somebody else, and _then_ he can go, _then_ he can do whatever he wants, just as long as he manages to make it through another twenty four hours here.

Luckily, they haven't made it so far that she can't find them in the labyrinth of corridors, and when she skids around the corner, the soft leather soles of her shoes slipping and sliding on the polished floors, she finds that Steve has Tony by the arm, his hand maintaining a firm grip on him, preventing him from taking another step towards freedom.

"Oh, you've come to join us. How wonderful," Tony says sarcastically. "I wanna go home. Props to you guys for staying, but I just wanna go home."

"One day," Natasha says between deep steadying breaths. "One day."

"Why?" Tony asks with a shrug. "Why one day? Why do you guys even _want me_ to stick around?"

"Because…we're a team, right?" The words sound so lame, so _stupid_ coming from her mouth that it's no surprise that Tony arches a disbelieving eyebrow. She should have left that statement to Steve - Captain Decency would have made it sound a whole lot better.

"And the _real_ reason?" Tony asks.

"Just stay, come on. One day, Stark, you can manage one day."

Tony tries to pull away from Steve but he doesn't relinquish his grip. "What's the big deal?" he demands.

Natasha breathes in deeply, and Steve glances over to her. Tony's eyes flick between them, and she wonders whether they can try and recreate their conversation with Jane from earlier. Then, it had been unintentional, but this time, they could try and raise Tony's suspicions to a point where he's curious enough to stay. She's not sure how generous Loki will be this time around however, if he is denied at the last minute of a chance to prove to them all how one abandonment can lead to disaster, how one selfish act, even without knowledge of the consequences, can mean dire things for everybody left behind.

"He's playing a game," Natasha says at last. "And letting you walk free is one of his moves."

"I think it's a _great_ move," Tony says, scrunching his nose and nodding, his brown eyes overbright from tiredness and stress.

"Make a _counter move_," Natasha hisses, stepping forward. "Surprise him, play him at his own game, fight _back_."

"I don't _need_ to fight," Tony says slowly, as though explaining something very simple to a two year old. "He is letting me _go_."

"What, so you're just gonna leave us, just like that?" Steve says disgustedly, shoving Tony towards the wall. Tony turns a steely glare onto Steve and brushes himself off.

"Yeah, Captain Spandex, I think I just might," he says in an icy tone.

"You _can't_," Natasha argues, stepping between them before tensions raise even further. "We need you."

"No you don't," Tony replies with a shake of his head. "What could you possibly need me for?"

"The game," Steve says sternly. "We need a full team to play the game, all right? We need our best minds working on this."

"So remind me why _you're_ involved?"

"_Tony_," Natasha says exasperatedly. "Just stay! One day! One damn day and then you can do whatever the hell you want, all right?"

"But Pepper - "

"Coped just _fine_ when you went missing in Afghanistan," Natasha tells him. "She's gonna be okay."

"But things are different now," Tony replies, looking down at his feet, his hands fidgeting in front of him. "Things are - "

"She has _always_ cared for you, long before the two of you got together," Natasha says softly. "Just because you were too much of a dumbass to realise, it doesn't mean the feelings weren't there. She loved you then and she coped then. She loves you now and she will cope _now_."

"She doesn't even know where I am," he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. "I just took off, didn't say a word…"

"She knows you're with us," Steve says, his voice far more gentle now. "And she knows that we all look out for one another. We might not all be best buddies, and we might squabble like children when you put us all in a room together, but we look out for one another. Because we're a team, and that's what teams do."

Tony turns his head, looking down the long stretch of corridor that leads towards the palace exit. He chews anxiously on his lip then looks down at the floor again, sighing heavily. "You know that sentimental crap won't work on me, Cap," he says quietly. "Teamwork…not really my area…not when my girl's lightyears away and worried sick about me."

"Bruce is still down there."

The words hang in the air, and though she doesn't have a clear view of Tony's face, she can still see some sort of emotion flit across it. She doesn't know why those five words in particular decided to form in her mouth, nor does she really recall making the decision to speak them aloud. She does know that she might just have found the right pressure point that will get him to stay. He runs his hand through his hair again and his chest rises and falls steadily has he takes deep, controlled breaths.

"He's in a bad way," she continues. "He's gonna need a friend when he gets out of that cell."

Tony doesn't say anything, and Steve takes a step away from him, glancing over to Natasha curiously.

"He's had to hold his temper this whole time, at the risk of losing his _hands_," Natasha tells him. "Even with all the _arguing_, the _bickering_, the lack of _food_. He's held on for that _long_. Can't you hold on twenty-four hours for him?"

"There it is," Tony says softly. "Emotional blackmail. Right in the gut."

Steve smiles in relief and throws an arm around Tony's shoulders. "Come on," he says. "Let's go ruin Loki's day."

She half expects Tony to shrug Steve's arm off, but he doesn't and the three of them head back to the dining hall together, Tony rather subdued, Steve still sporting his smile, while she, Natasha, wonders just how fine a line they're treading with what they're telling people. She's certain that Loki will be unhappy with this turn of events, so thrilled he was at Tony's initial departure, and as such she's not banking on them being out of the woods just yet. He was so pleased to have such a game changing moment unfold over dinner, that to have it snatched away at the last minute will probably feel to him like Christmas has been cancelled.

When they re-enter the dining hall, Loki's eyes narrow on them. Tony takes his seat and picks up his goblet of wine, taking a sip while Natasha and Steve sit down in their places.

"Thought I'd come see what was for dessert," Tony says brightly, all traces of homesickness and concern well hidden by his usual happy-go-lucky façade.

"How disappointing…" Loki drawls. "You just _have _to spoil all my fun, don't you, Natasha?"

"I take pride in it," she replies with a ghost of a smile. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Loki's lips, but he says nothing in response.

"Are you two _flirting_?" Tony asks incredulously, setting down his goblet with a loud clunk. "There are people locked up in the dungeons and you two are _flirting_? Is this what I'm sticking around for?"

Natasha gives him a cool look and he suddenly becomes interested in his wine again.

"What's the matter, Mr Stark?" Loki asks. "Cat got your tongue?"

"No," Tony replies in a slow, steady voice. "I was just reminded that she could probably think of a hundred and fifty different ways to kill me using only the salt shaker. That kind of realisation tends to shut me up."

Natasha thinks she should remind him of that fact more often.

* * *

She paces around her bedroom, unable to settle. They've denied Loki of a satisfying twist in his game, and she is certain that there will be consequences for it. She walks back and forth so many times that she thinks she might be starting to wear a hole in the sole of her shoe, and so eventually she leaves her room, striding down the corridors until she once more finds herself at his door. It's late, and so she knocks quietly and awaits a response.

"Enter!"

She opens the door and slips inside, looking around for Loki. He's nowhere to be seen, but then a shirt is slung over the top of his dressing screen, and she can see his shadow flitting around on the wall as he pulls off his boots.

"Salme, is that you? What do you want?"

"No," Natasha replies. "It's me."

He pokes his head out from behind the screen, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown, his pale shoulders bare, illuminated by the firelight. "What do _you_ want?" he demands, disappearing behind his screen again. He emerges a few moments later, sporting a set of loose, linen pyjamas. He approaches her, looking a little silly in his nightwear, and Natasha suspects that he knows it, because he's trying his best make his shoulders as broad as possible. He's standing up straight, his chin raised, and he towers over her. And yet, a smile plays at her lips as she lets her eyes wander over his clothes.

"I uh…" she trails off, and Loki eyes her suspiciously. She can't even get her head around what she wants to say, so distracted is she by his get up, which, while as simple as clothes can be, seems far more ridiculous than his usual leather and metal. "I never really had you pegged as a _pyjamas_ kinda guy…" she says, unable to avoid the subject for any longer.

Loki bristles. "Yes, well, if I _didn't_ wear pyjamas, I'm not sure there's enough gold in all the vaults that would make it worth Salme's while to give me my wake up call."

"She's a maid, I'm sure she's seen it all before," Natasha says with a shrug.

Loki shakes his head. "She's very young. This is her first job. Her, Kari, and a handful of others were hired when they finished their schooling. There are no trades for young girls, other than crude work, and otherwise they are expected to find husbands and provide children."

"And you don't like that idea?" Natasha asks curiously. Were her friends not locked up in the dungeons, she would have given a good deal more thought to Loki's household staff. It seems strange, that a man so intent on destruction in some scenarios can also be so intent on doing decent things in others. But, she knows better than anybody, people don't just fall into the categories of good and bad. Some might be dangerously close to one end of the spectrum, but it's not uncommon for people to shift along the scale at different points in their life. She's been as close to bad as it's possible to get, and now, she likes to think, at least, she's edging her way up to the more acceptable end of things.

"My…" Loki lets out a sigh and sinks down onto the edge of his bed. "My mother was always pestering my father about the idea. She hated the idea that girls were going straight from school to marriage because there was so little choice for them. If their family owned a business they could learn the trade, but that was always luck of the draw. She adored Sif…considered her almost a daughter…"

"So you're doing all this for her?" Natasha asks. "Hiring girls to work in the palace?"

"It's not ideal," Loki says quietly. "But it's a start. I pay them a fair wage. I don't really care for the gold…they might as well have it."

It's strange, but little things like this that catch her off guard with him. His boredom with the throne has always suggested to her that he doesn't involve himself too much in the running of the kingdom, and perhaps that's right. Perhaps he ensures he keeps abreast of everything and then leaves the boring tasks up to everybody else. But, it seems, every so often there is something that has to be just as he wants it. He rules with his mother's heart in mind - if he could only be under her influence in every aspect of his life, they might never have been in this mess in the first place.

"You're strange," she tells him.

"Says the alien assassin."

"I'm not an _alien_," she retorts, but when Loki raises his eyebrow, she realises that, in this scenario at least, she is. She's on _his planet_, not her own. She's the odd one out, and though she might not _look_ any different to the Asgardians, she certainly _is_ different. She sits down next to him, the mattress sinking under her weight, and though his eyebrows twitch into a small frown, he doesn't say anything. "You're strange because you take such good care of your maids, who are, for all intents and purposes, strangers, and yet, your own brother - "

"None of the maids have abandoned my body on a frozen wasteland," he snaps. "None of them have spent years overshadowing me, none of them have ever tried to make me look the _fool_."

"You _have_ tried to kill him half a dozen times," she reasons. At her words, some of the tightness in Loki's shoulders disappears, the tension between them easing, just a little. "You ever think about wiping the slate clean? Both of you?"

"If you've come here to _lecture me - _"

"No, I didn't," she says, leaving the subject of him, his maids, and his brother alone for the time being. "I came here to see if you were pissed about the Tony thing."

"You know, considering how intelligent you are, you can be _quite_ the imbecile," he tells her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She knows better than to be offended. If his words weren't laced with sarcasm and insult, she'd think there was something seriously wrong with him.

"Obviously I am not _pissed_, as you so eloquently put it. If I were _pissed_ you would know about it."

Natasha frowns. "So what's the point? Why have all these conditions if you're never going to react?"

"You want me to react?"

"Well obviously _not_, but I'd have thought you'd take any opportunity to make us pay, even for the tiniest breach of the rules. You're petty like that." She pauses, her teeth pulling on the inside of her lower lip. "Or you were."

"The game is playing itself out now," Loki tells her, leaning back on his hands and resting his weight on the heels of his palms.. "I'll probably let Thor stew for a few days after the others have been released but…this was never going to be the interesting bit. You were always the wildcard. I'm surprised you never realised."

"Me?" she asks. "Why me?"

Loki stretches his legs out in front of him and sighs heavily. He is bored of the conversation, she can tell, wants to go to bed, but he won't tell her so. He'd sound far too much like a child, and he won't sink to such levels, not in front of her.

"I didn't know whether you'd go or stay. Whether, after they all turned on you, cast you out, you'd still hang around for their sakes. You were always the most interesting of all of them." He looks across at her, the fingers of his right hand absentmindedly tapping against the mattress. "You're _still_ the most interesting."

She doesn't know what to say to that, and the silence feels thick, though not uncomfortable. She's suddenly aware of every single beat of her heart, the blood pulsing through her veins, each breath that swells in her lungs. As she looks at him, his narrow face, his eyes that are now avoiding her own, she realises why she was the chosen subject of the game. Everybody else is far more team-oriented than she is. Even Clint, who has always found it easier to trust others and work well with them than she has. She is far more remote, because she likes it that way, but as such, she is vulnerable because she keeps herself separate. Not only that, but none of them have the chequered past that she does. None of them have edged much past the middle of the good and bad scale, at least, not towards the wrong end. Steve shines like a beacon on the noble side of things, and she supposes that he, Jane and Thor are quite comfortable there. Bruce is, perhaps a little further down the scale, but not much, while Tony hops from point to point, depending on his mood. Clint is a grey area, naturally, but she, Natasha, has dipped her toes into the murky waters of the bottom end of things more often than she'd care to recall, and, thanks to Clint, Loki is aware of that, of every grim, stomach churning detail.

"You needed reassurance," she says softly. "That even somebody like me can be…" Her words fade away. She's not a good person, she's not even within _spitting distance_ of being a good person. "That somebody like me can do the right thing. Even if they've done more wrong things than they can ever make amends for."

"Your words," he says, glancing up at her and then looking away almost immediately. "Not mine."

It's as though a light has been shone on the dark recesses of his mind. She understands now, that every small, strange little quirk, such as hiring the girls and giving them a chance to earn their own money, listening to Sif, even when it pains him to, and making sure that the kingdom is flourishing, that all of his subjects are healthy and happy, it's all done with a sense of making amends. All of it, she is sure, is what his mother would have wanted for the kingdom, and what's more than that, the type of king that Loki is, the one that respects his domestic staff, that places the rebuilding of the damaged villages as a top priority on his ascension to the throne, that's the kind of man she is sure Loki's mother would have wanted him to be. The game aside, the petty feud between him and Thor ignored just for a moment, what it boils down to is that he has been trying to right his wrongs, ever since he was given the opportunity. All he ever needed was to be left alone.

"D'you regret it? Coming to Earth?" she asks at last, the question burning inside of her.

"I don't dwell on it," he says offhandedly.

"So that's a no," she replies.

"I _said_ I don't dwell on it," he says through gritted teeth. "That's a different thing."

"It's either a yes or a no," Natasha presses.

"Except it's _not_," he argues. "It's a chain. If Thor hadn't cast me into oblivion, I would have never ended up…" He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. "It wasn't a standalone event. I didn't wake up one day and decide to invade Midgard. I might be capricious but I'm not _insane_."

She can understand that. She knows better than she'd like how easy it is to become trapped in a chain reaction, how one thing can lead to another and before you know it there's blood on your hands and a long list of people that want to make you pay. She tries not to dwell on her past either, but luckily for her, her own indiscretions aren't as recent and raw as Loki's are. She's moved past them, she's put herself on what she hopes to be the right track, at long last.

"You've got a long way to go," she tells him. "It won't just wash out."

"I know that," he mumbles.

"And locking up innocent people is only going to count against yourself, if you're trying to outweigh the bad deeds with good ones."

Loki doesn't reply to that.

"No one will think you're weak if you let them out."

"Go to bed," he says quietly. "It's late."

She doesn't argue at the dismissal, and leaves him be, bidding him goodnight before she heads back to her own room. Her heart is resting easier in her chest now, though her skin tingles unpleasantly at the amount of similarities between them that their conversation highlighted. She doesn't like the idea of being in the same boat as somebody like him. And yet, every decision he makes as a king, he makes with his mother in mind, his mother who, from what Natasha has heard, was a good, kind woman. The idea of Loki being capable of anything good, or kind, is completely at odds with everything she knows about him. He doesn't _suit_ good, and yet she'd be a complete and utter hypocrite if she ever refused to believe that he could be anything less than that.

Thoughts and questions race through her mind as she stares up into the dark, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her bed covers. Eventually, she falls asleep, her dreams plagued by distant, echoing booms. She wakes with a start when the door to her room crashes open, and after a moment the room is illuminated with bright torchlight. She squints towards the doorway, her hand inching towards the thick gold candlestick on the bedside table, just in case she needs it.

"Get dressed," Sif says, tossing a heavy pile of clothes onto her bed. She's out of breath, and has a chest plate dangling over one arm, while her other hand clutches a collection of spears, swords, and axes. She strides over, and dumps the chest plate on top of the clothes. "_Quickly_," she says. "Which d'you want?" She holds the weapons aloft, and Natasha frowns in confusion. In the distance there is a boom that vibrates through the palace floor, and Natasha jumps out of bed.

"I'll take the spear," she says, grabbing the clothes Sif has brought and pulling them on. "What's going on?"

"We're under attack," Sif tells her, lifting the chest plate over Natasha's head and helping her secure the bolts at her waist.

"By _who_?"

Sif's dark eyes meet her own with a grim gaze.

"Frost giants."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **I've actually only got a chapter and three quarters left to write on this. I've been a busy bee this week. Eighteen chapters altogether I _think_. Unless I've forgotten something or more things happen than intended. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Hope you like this one!

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Frost giants?" Natasha asks as they head for the door. The spear is heavier than she's used to, created for Asgardian warriors, but she's certain she'll be able to land some hefty blows with it. "Aren't they Loki's crowd?"

Sif gives her a look then kicks open Jane's door. "Jane, hurry, the palace is under attack."

"What?" Jane looks up at them, her bleary eyes glinting in the dark. Her hair is mussed, trailing over the pillow, and she pushes herself up, suppressing a yawn. "What are you talking about?"

"There's no time to explain," Sif says, crossing the distance between the doorway and the bed in a handful of long, purposeful strides. She takes Jane by the arm and pulls her firmly to her feet, keeping a tight grip on her when she stumbles, still sleepy and disoriented. "Put some shoes on, quickly."

Jane does as she's told, then looks at Natasha for the first time. "Why do you have armour?"

"I guess I'm fighting?" Natasha says.

"What about me?" Jane asks.

"We'll take you somewhere safe, don't worry," Sif says, tugging her towards the door impatiently.

"But I want to fight!" Jane argues. "I can fight!"

Sif glances towards Natasha and releases Jane. She gives her a long thin dagger. "You shouldn't need to defend yourself," she tells her. "But if you do…use it."

Jane blinks and looks down at the dagger, the hilt far too large for her small hand. It's more like a sword for her, and her face contorts into a troubled expression, her lips skewed to one side, eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown. Apparently the reality of fighting to kill has hit her. "I've never stabbed anybody before," she says quietly.

"And hopefully you won't have to," Sif says kindly. "Come now, Fandral and Volstagg have gone to get Mr Stark and the Captain."

"What about Loki?" Natasha asks, hurrying alongside Sif. She has to take two steps to keep up with each one of Sif's long strides, and Jane is trotting along on Sif's other side, both hands secured around the hilt of her dagger.

"He's making preparations in the throne room. We're going to him now."

"Release Bruce," Natasha says. "And Clint, and _Thor_."

Jane's attention is drawn away from her dagger at this last comment, and she looks up to Sif hopefully. Surely having an extra three people fighting can only be good for them, right? Especially if one of them's the god of thunder, another can transform into a super huge angry green guy, and the last is the best archer in all nine realms. _Surely_ he will consent to release them.

"That will be Loki's decision," she says. The palace gives another almighty shudder, and Sif quickens her pace, letting out a quiet huff of stress. After what feels like an age, they reach the throne room, where Loki is standing with a crowd of golden helmeted guards. He looks up when they arrive, and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Where are the others?" he asks. He's paler than usual, his eyes skirting nervously around the room, his grip on his heavy staff so tight that his knuckles are bulging under the skin. Apparently he doesn't like being surprised, much less in the middle of the night when they are at their most vulnerable. It's the sort of thing he'd normally do himself. It seems he's learning what it's like to be on the other end of it.

"Coming," Sif tells him. "Why didn't Heimdall raise the alarm?"

"He couldn't _see them_," Loki tells her. "It's my fault, I showed them how to get in before and…I never thought they'd even _dare_…"

Sif lets out a sigh and closes her eyes, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Loki…"

"I _know_," he says impatiently, pacing back and forth, his forehead creased with lines of worry. "I _know_, you don't have to tell me."

Natasha approaches, spear in hand, rhythmically readjusting her grip on it to get a good feel for it. She places a hand on his upper arm and gives it a comforting squeeze. "What's the plan?"

"Plan?" he asks, frowning down at her. "The plan is to get you home as soon as the bifrost is clear. Or at least get you to safety."

"There's no _way_ we can get them to the bifrost," Sif argues. "They'll be sitting ducks!"

"Well then what do you _suggest_?" Loki snarls. "We just let them fend for themselves? They're _mortal_, and this is _not_ their fight."

"The Avengers took out you and an army of Chitauri," Natasha interrupts loudly, drawing the attention of everybody in the room now. "Release Bruce, release Clint, release Thor, and we will face these _frost giant _guys off _together_. Okay? We can _do this_."

Loki shakes his head. "The frost giants are crueller and cleverer," he tells her. "And the last time we all went to Jotunheim, Thor destroyed half their realm. If they lay eyes on him, they will _kill him_. I can't let that happen."

"What's going on?" Steve demands, striding through the open doorway. He too has been gifted with armour, as has Tony, who is inspecting his weapon with interest as he walks. Volstagg and Fandral close the doors behind them, sliding the heavy, cast iron bolts across the door, sealing them in.

"We're under attack," Sif tells him. "The frost giants have found their way into the palace, via the vaults. We've got guards defending on each level."

"What can I do to help?" Steve asks, looking towards Loki now, who blinks in surprise at Steve's words.

"Help?" he repeats. "You want to help?"

"Your brother helped us defend Earth," Steve says, firmly. "It's only right that we return the favour when his world is under attack."

Loki opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. After a moment, he looks at the floor, his fingers squeezing his staff tightly as he tries to pull himself together.

"Release the others," Natasha says to him quietly. "I promise you they'll help."

"It hardly seems right, releasing prisoners for the sole purpose of fighting my battles. They'll be safer down there. Not even the frost giants can penetrate those cells."

"Do they know that you killed the last king? Do they know that was you?" She wants to know how much of a target he'll be. He's worried about Thor, but he's got frost giant blood on his hands too. If they know he killed the previous king, they'll hone in on him as soon as they spot him.

Loki shrugs. "Hardly matters. I suspect they'll try to kill me regardless." Saying the words aloud seems to steel him with confidence, as though he has accepted his fate, but is refusing to go down without a fight. The change in him scares Natasha. It is something she recognises, something she has felt only a handful of times, most recently during the attack on the helicarrier where she was trapped on the lower levels while Bruce transformed. It is a nagging at the back of the mind, a small, horrible little voice that says _you're still going to die, you know_. Even after all this time, she hasn't learned to shut it down.

"It's going to be okay," she says. "I'm here to fight, Steve's here to fight, Tony looks like wants to test out whatever the hell that thing is." She gestures over to him, and he looks up from his weapon, his index finger resting over a small trigger. It's like an elegant rifle, though Natasha is certain it doesn't fire bullets. Asgard is way ahead in terms of weapons technology, and in other ways, incredibly behind. Tony can keep his gadgets, she's happy with her weighty spear. "Get Clint, get him a bow, and get him up high. He'll pick them off. And Bruce…well, you know what Bruce can do."

"I'm not releasing Thor," Loki argues. "They'll be after his blood. He's safer where he is."

"That's fine," Natasha replies calmly. "That's okay. But we need to move fast, okay?" It's a start at least, and having Bruce on their side will definitely boost their chances of winning. The frost giants won't know what's hit them. Never mind Asgardians, with all their five thousand year life span glory, the Hulk is a sight to behold, and he is _fantastic_.

Loki holds out his spare hand at his side, and Natasha frowns down at it, wondering what he's doing, but then there is a familiar whooshing sound, and Loki catches Thor's hammer deftly, his fingers curling around the leather handle.

"You're gonna fight with that?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

Loki shakes his head. "It doesn't like me," he says. "It obeys me, but it doesn't like me. Besides," he adds, sounding a little more like his old self now. "I prefer weapons with a little more finesse. Captain!"

Steve looks up, his conversation with Tony paused. "Yes?"

"I think you're probably disgustingly noble enough to be able to wield this," Loki says, then tosses the hammer towards him. Steve catches it instinctively, and to Natasha's surprise, he maintains a good grip on it, the hammer apparently happy with its temporary new owner.

"Is he gonna be okay with this?" Steve asks sceptically, looking down at the hammer warily, as though he's not quite sure what to do with it.

"He's going to have to be," Loki replies matter-of-factly. "Sif, go and get Agent Barton and Dr Banner. Explain the situation. Natasha," he lowers his voice now, his piercing gaze focused on her and her alone. "Protect Jane. If anything happens to her, Thor will never forgive me. Go and find somewhere safe, do _not_ come out until the battle is over."

Natasha nods, takes Jane by the arm, and drags her towards the only door left unlocked, through which Sif has just departed. Once they're through it, Natasha breaks into a sprint, Jane running next to her, and eventually they catch up with Sif, who, as well as her sword, has managed to acquire a longbow and a quiver of arrows from the mass of weapons in the throne room.

"Think Clint might need a little convincing," Natasha says by way of an explanation. Sif nods, and readjusts the strap of the quiver on her shoulder.

"You think he'll fight?"

"Yeah," Natasha says, hoping that she's right. The only danger there is with giving Clint his favoured weapon and releasing him into Asgard is that Loki might get an arrow right through the eye. She chews on her lip as they walk, trying to ignore the deep, resonating booms in the distance, and eventually they reach the door that leads down to the dungeons. Sif takes the stairs two at a time, not wasting a second, and Natasha and Jane hurry after her. When they reach the cells, everyone is on their feet, looking towards the ceiling as dust falls with every distant crash, the floor vibrating.

"Sif, what's going on?" Thor asks, stepping towards the front of the glass.

"The frost giants have broken into the palace," she tells him, and his face drains of what little colour it had.

"Bruce?" Natasha says, approaching his cell. "I know it's a big ask but…could you maybe help us out?"

Bruce smiles lazily. "You want me to fight for the guy who's kept me in here?" He asks, as though he thinks it's a joke. "Really?"

"Not for the guy, for the realm. This is Thor's home, and he helped us when we were under attack."

"From his _brother_," Bruce argues.

"Tony's fighting," Natasha says quietly, fixing him with a cool stare. "He's got a new toy, probably gonna get himself killed, but hey, at least he'll be having fun."

"All _right_," Bruce relents, and for the first time since they set foot on Asgard, there is a hint of impatience in his tone. "_Fine_, let me out and I'll do my worst. Can't promise the palace'll still be standing but…"

"Worry not for the palace, Dr Banner," Sif says, grabbing a spear from the wall and striding towards his cell. "Worry for the lives of innocent people."

"And what about Loki?" Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sif inserts the blade of the spear into the gap next to Bruce's cell, then pauses, looking towards Natasha.

"You wanna punch him through a god damn wall, then let it wait until _after_ the frost giants have been dealt with, okay?" Natasha sighs. Bruce nods, and Sif turns the spear, the glass sliding open. As soon as the gap is big enough for him to fit through, Bruce steps out, and Sif wrenches the spear free, before moving on to Clint's cell.

"We have a longbow for you, Agent Barton, if you would be kind enough to assist us."

Clint shakes his head. "I think I'll stay here. You guys enjoy the party."

"Clint," Natasha says, stepping as close to the glass as she can without pressing her nose against it. "Please. There's no time to explain, just _help us_. Steve's fighting, Tony's fighting, _I'm _fighting. Can't you trust on this one? Just once?"

Clint paces back and forth across his cell, his hands clasped in front of him. "After _everything_," he mumbles. "_Everything_ he did to me, to our world, he wants us to _help_?"

"No," Natasha replies softly. "He wanted to send us home. _I _want you to help."

Clint stops pacing and turns his head to regard her for a moment. If he says no now, there is nothing else she will be able to say to convince him. He will be a lost cause and a waste of time. But when he lets out a sigh that suggests he's doing this against his better judgement, she knows she has won.

"Nat, if we die for this asshole…"

"Shoot straight and you won't die," Natasha says hurriedly, as Sif jams the spear blade into the gap and turns it, Clint squeezing through the opening as soon as he is able. Sif hands him the long bow and he inspects it, weighing it in his hands and turning it over before plucking at the string with his fingertips. He gives a firm nod, and Sif tosses him the quiver, which he then slings over his shoulders, adjusting the leather strap until it is sitting comfortably across his chest.

Before Sif can take more than two steps towards the door, Natasha grabs her by the arm.

"We should open Thor's cell," she mutters.

"Loki said no."

"We should open Thor's cell," Natasha repeats through gritted teeth, then gives Sif a meaningful look. She lets out a breath of realisation, grabs the spear from Clint's cell lock and thrusts it into Thor's. Jane takes a step back towards Natasha as the glass slides away, and as soon as the gap is big enough, Natasha grabs Jane by the upper arm and shoves her into the cell. She stumbles, Thor catching her, his mouth ajar as he looks at Natasha open mouthed, betrayal written all over his face. Sif turns the spear back the other way and the glass slides firmly shut.

"Sif, what are you _doing_?" Thor demands.

"King's orders," Sif replies blankly.

"Do _not_ let his pride cost you this victory!"

"It's not his _pride_ he is concerned about," Sif hisses. "It is _you_. _Both_ of you."

Thor's expression sobers at this, and Jane looks up to him, worry etched into her features. When Sif looks down at Natasha however, she finds her grip tightening on her spear. Sif notices, of course, and her expression softens.

"You and he are so similar," she says, a faint smile playing at her lips. "But I'm not sure that this order is worth the fight. My energy is best reserved for the battle."

"As is mine," Natasha says coolly, her grip relaxing just a little.

"He only wants to protect you," Sif says. "Do not feel insulted. There are very few people in this universe that Loki would protect."

"Yeah, well maybe he should focus on protecting himself," Natasha says, and she strides past Sif towards the dungeon door, climbing the steps as quickly as she can, and soon, the others follow on behind her, Thor's echoing pleas for release fading into nothingness when they close the door behind them.

"Time to get angry?" Bruce asks, glancing towards Natasha. She nods, and he lets out a roar as he transforms, his skin darkening to a greenish hue, his muscles ripping through his shirt as he grows and grows and grows. Each footstep he takes is like a blast of thunder, shaking the floor so much that Natasha can no longer detect any signs of battle from the vaults.

"Oh my," Sif says, gazing up at Bruce, now fully transformed. "The frost giants _will_ be surprised."

Bruce lets out a low, rumbling chuckle and flexes his thick fingers, his knuckles giving off cracks as loud as gunshots. Clint falls into step beside Natasha, his bow in hand, his gaze focused straight ahead. She knows this walk. They have walked it together a thousand times, in New York, in Budapest, Montreal… It is a walk that assures her that they're going to be okay, that they've got each other's backs, no matter what.

"Promise me you won't kill him," she says softly.

"I promise nothing," he replies, though when she looks across he is smirking, just a little.

"At least wait until _after_. Form a line with Bruce."

"Sounds good," Clint replies, as they reach the doors to the throne room. They press their shoulders against the heavy wood, and the doors swing open. Upon seeing Bruce, some of the guards raise their weapons, but when Sif gives one firm shake of the head, they lower them, gazing up at Bruce apprehensively. Natasha turns to Loki, whose eyes are also fixed on Bruce. When his gaze drops to Natasha, a scowl forms on his pale face.

"Sif! What - ?"

"It wasn't worth the argument," Sif cuts across him. "And she can handle herself. She'll be fine."

Loki's scowl becomes more pronounced. "And what of Jane? What have you done with her?"

"She's with Thor," Sif replies. "Natasha had the same idea that you did."

At this, the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of Loki's mouth, but then the palace gives an almighty shake, the torchlight flickering, brackets jangling, and Natasha feels the vibrations shudder through her feet and up through her legs. Apparently the frost giants are close, because this latest rumble causes all the golden cloaked guards to get into formation and raise their weapons. Natasha approaches Loki, who is pacing back and forth now, breathing heavily.

"You okay?" she asks when she nears him.

"I'll be fine," he mutters. "Don't let them touch you," he says, fixing her with a piercing look as he paces. "And they _will_ shatter if you use enough brute force. They're strong, but they're brittle. They don't break in the way that mortals do. You can't just use your normal moves. It's entirely different. You can't snap their necks, they won't bleed out, you just have to…fight."

"It's going to be okay," she assures him. "Although Clint has a bone or two to pick with you after, so you can look forward to that."

"Oh good," Loki sighs. "So if I don't die by the hand of a frost giant, it'll be an arrow from Agent Barton's bow. _Just_ what I always wanted." He glances past Natasha, to where Clint is standing, and when he stops pacing, Natasha knows that Clint has locked eyes with him. She resists the urge to turn around, and after a moment, Loki's gaze lands back on her, and he exhales softly.

The main doors give a thunderous shudder, and everybody falls silent, the soft clanking of armour the only sound in the room. Natasha turns around to see Clint making his way swiftly through the crowd, jogging up the steps to the throne and climbing onto the back of it, perched on his haunches, before he draws an arrow quietly and loads his bow. The doors shake again, the heavy bolts rattling ominously, and from beyond the door, Natasha is sure she can hear the crackle of ice.

"Stay alive," Loki murmurs, then walks swiftly across to Sif, Volstagg and Fandral, who are murmuring amongst themselves, weapons held firmly in hand, ready to turn and attack at a moment's notice. There is another loud smash, and in amongst the din it is possible to make out the horrible squeak of splintered wood.

"Just like old times, huh?" Steve says, strolling over to her and coming to rest by her side. He keeps adjusting his grip on the hammer, as though he can't quite believe he's holding it, and Natasha feels the faint flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach settle at his presence. Just like old times indeed. She's always been a spy, never a soldier, except for that one time. As she looks around, from Bruce, whose green muscled chest is heaving with every ragged breath of anticipation he takes, to Tony, who has found himself a sweet hiding spot in the corner from which to fire his weapon, to Clint, poised and ready to shoot, and to Steve, next to her, she knows that there are only a handful of people with whom she is willing to make the transition to soldier with, and all of them are here with her.

There is one last crash, the doors finally giving way, tumbling to the floor and causing the guards to rush backwards, out of its path. In the doorway there is a sea of blue, speckled with vicious, glinting, red eyes. There is a pause, just for a moment, in which one side stares at the other, sizing them up, selecting individual opponents.

And then all hell breaks loose.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **I'm on a gosh darn roll, and as such, I'm aiming to finish writing this this weekend, and will hopefully have it all posted before Tuesday night. Also, I lied yesterday. Not eighteen chapters. Nineteen. Nineteen damn chapters.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She doesn't have a moment to catch her breath. The Asgardians and the frost giants crash together, weapons clanging, bursts of fatal white energy spraying from spears. Steve launches himself into the centre of things, and when the hammer connects with the torso of one of the frost giants, it shatters into a thousand shards, the light disappearing from behind his glowing red eyes.

Clint is picking the giants off from his perch, firing arrow after arrow, each time meeting his mark. Tony too is getting on well, and has gotten to grips with Asgardian weaponry quickly enough for her to not worry about him. Bruce, meanwhile, is barging his way through the mass of blue, tossing frost giants into the wall with ease, or else picking them up and slamming them viciously down on the floor. Sif is at his side, and they're heading for the doors. Apparently she thinks Bruce's party trick will be of more use down in the vaults, and she's probably right. If they can stop more frost giants from coming in, then there might be an end to this madness before anybody on their side gets badly injured.

Natasha hasn't come into contact with any of them yet, her petite stature making her almost invisible amongst the towering Asgardians. She feels useless, shoved around by the fall out from other people's fights, without contributing much herself. She looks around for Loki, and when she spots him, she also spots the frost giant charging for him. He braces himself against the wall, his large spear held aloft, but the frost giant isn't deterred. Just before he makes contact, there is a flare of emerald light, and Loki disappears, the frost giant crunching face first into the wall and sliding down onto the floor.

She's out of her comfort zone, that much she knows. She doesn't do battles, nor team work, nor any of the things required for being a soldier. She certainly doesn't do magic, and there's far too much of that flying around for her to know if she can really trust what her eyes are seeing. Before she can turn around to look for the real Loki however, she takes a blow to the back of her head that sends her crashing to the floor. It is just what she needs for the adrenalin to start pumping through her veins, a much needed sense of purpose igniting in her stomach. She pushes herself up, spear in hand, and looks straight into the crimson gaze of her opponent. He grins, obviously convinced that she will be an easy kill, but when she runs towards him, she catches a brief glint of shock in his eyes before he charges at her. She slides onto the floor just as they reach each other, skidding between his legs and turning just in time to embed the blade of her spear into the back of his knee. He falls to the floor with a rough shout, and Natasha wrenches her spear from his leg. She doesn't hesitate, taking two quick strides and plunging the blade into the back of his head, twisting it until his twitching movements cease, his body lifeless and still.

She doesn't wait for someone to pick a fight with her this time. There is an Asgardian focused entirely on his battle with a hefty frost giant, while another with a nasty, vicious grin approaches from behind, his arm encased in ice, tapering to a sharp, lethal point. Natasha charges, her hands clutching her spear tightly, braced for the spine tingling reverberations that will shoot through it upon impact. The frost giant is faster than her, nearly close enough to the Asgardian soldier to issue a deadly and cowardly blow, and so she speeds up, her heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her veins.

The spear tip punctures the side of his torso, but she doesn't stop there. She drives it into him, until the blade breaks free on the other side. He tries to turn and attack, but Natasha holds the spear steady, then kicks his legs out from under him and he crashes to the floor. She tries to pull her spear free, but it's stuck, and so she braces her foot against his side, tugging and tugging, a pathetic figure amongst the rush and the rage and the noise all around her.

Shards of ice shower over her, pattering against her armour, and an arrow skitters to the floor, before it is snapped in two like a twig by the heavy boot of a soldier. Natasha turns to see the splintered remains of a frost giant on the ground, one side of its head shattered. She looks up, and sees Clint, bow loaded, arrowhead tracking the movement of a frost giant in the crowd. His fingers release the bow string and the arrow soars through the air, hitting the frost giant square in the back, stopping it dead in its tracks. Clint smirks, and when he sees Natasha, he gives her a small wink and draws another arrow from his quiver.

A shout sounds from the far pillar, and there is a flash of white light followed by an explosion of ice. Loki sprints over to the pillar, ducking and diving, dodging all attempts to inflict injury upon him. Without thinking, Natasha pulls her spear free with one last tug, and goes to join him, her feet pounding against the floor, a sickly lump building in her throat. She ducks at the last minute to avoid the thrust of an icy blade and skids to a halt when she reaches the pillar, throwing her arm around it to stop herself from sliding into the wall.

Tony is on the floor clutching his arm to his chest, Loki knelt at his side, peeling Tony's hand away from his injured forearm.

"Quickly now," Loki says, glancing up at the sound of a loud crash. The floor shakes, sending tremors through Natasha's body, and when she turns her head she sees Steve looking shell shocked, a small circle of space around him bordered by half a dozen motionless frost giants. He stares down at the hammer for a moment, then, after a shrug, launches it towards another frost giant.

"Is this frost bite?" Tony asks in a strangled tone, his eyes bulging as he looks down at the blackened skin of his forearm. "Did that asshole give me _frostbite_?"

"Get him to a bathroom," Loki tells Natasha, standing up and grabbing Tony by the shoulder of his armour, pulling him to his feet. "Hot bath, as hot as he can bare, we'll get him to the healers as soon as it's safe."

Natasha nods and grabs Tony's good arm, placing it around her shoulders and checking that the coast is clear before she starts towards the doors. She supposes the safest place for him would be in her bathroom. Hers and Jane's rooms are right in the depths of the palace, and the frost giants won't have cause to go there, not when the king and his men are battling it out in the throne room.

"You okay?" she asks, pulling Tony along as quickly as she can. His feet scuff against the floor, his legs trembling from the pain, and when his reply comes, it is with a very shaky attempt at bravado.

"Fantastic," he says, his fist clenched tight, knuckles burning white under the skin. "Absolutely fantastic."

She hears the crunch of icy footsteps too late, and she only just manages to throw Tony aside, spinning around to be met with the freezing cold grip of a frost giant, his strong, skeletal fingers digging into her arms, her leather sleeves turning white with a frosty sheen. The chill goes right down to her bones, and she can't imagine how much pain Tony must be in, having taken the full force of the frost giant's touch on a bare arm.

She still has her spear in hand, but she can't move either of her arms. As she stares into red eyes, she knows that head butts are out of the question. She'll break her own skull before she even scratches him.

"Are you gonna scream, little girl?" The frost giant says in a low, gravelly tone. "Nobody'll hear you all the way out here."

Natasha wrinkles her nose at the putrid stench of his breath and leans away. "Screaming is normally done by people who are scared," she says coldly.

"If you're not scared, then you must be stupid," he replies, his breath attacking her nostrils again, the smell lingering at the back of her throat, causing her to gag.

"Hey asshole," Tony calls out.

The frost giant looks towards Tony, slumped at the side of the hallway, his arm cradled against his chest. Natasha takes advantage of the moment, slamming the heel of her boot into the side of the frost giant's ankle. It cracks, and he lets out a growl of pain, and Natasha attacks again, small chips of ice scattering across the floor tiles on the second impact. His grip tightens painfully, but she doesn't stop, and soon she is able to wrench herself free from him, his ankle crumbling apart beneath him. She gets a good grip on her spear and rams it upwards, into his throat, silencing him once and for all.

"You're pretty good with that," Tony says weakly, nodding towards the spear.

"C'mon," she says, rubbing the stinging sensation out of her forearms. "Let's get you to the bath."

He feels heavier now as she drags him along, and she wonders whether she might have done even more damage when she shoved him to safety. He doesn't complain however, not once, and she ploughs on, deeper and deeper into the palace, the sounds of the battle growing fainter behind them. They reach her room after what feels like an age, and Natasha shoulders the door open. There is a scream, and she turns just in time to see a heavy gold candlestick come flying towards her. She ducks, reaching out to grab the slender arm that's brandishing it, and the candlestick falls to the floor with a thud, followed by the gasp of a girl.

"Salme?"

"I'm so sorry," Salme wails. "I thought you were - I've been hiding in here, I don't know where the others went." She's shaking all over, tears in her eyes, and she presses her hands against her mouth. Her hair has come loose from its elegant braid, her cheeks blotched with red from fear and panic. She only needs to take one look at Tony's arm however before she pushes all of that down, a stern expression falling into place on her face.

"I'll run a bath," she says, and hurries off to the bathroom, turning the taps on full as Natasha helps Tony over, then drops him into the wicker chair next to the towel shelf. She unscrews the bolts on his armour rapidly, lifting the chest plate carefully over his head, before dropping to her haunches to unbuckle his boots and pull them off his feet, tossing them to one side. The air is thick with steam now, the bath filling rapidly, as Salme searches through the glass bottles. She must find what she's looking for, because she triumphantly pulls out a small, octagonal-based bottle, half filled with a deep blue liquid. She takes off the cap and pours the whole lot into the bath, colouring the water.

"What's that?" Natasha asks as she tugs Tony's shirt over his head.

"Healing solution," Salme replies. "It's only very basic, more for stings and scratches, but it should help, even if only a little."

Natasha nods and pulls Tony up, leading him towards the bath. He climbs carefully down the steps, his hands gripping Natasha's as she lowers herself to her knees to ease him in, and he hisses as the scolding water touches his skin.

"I'm guessing it's gonna hurt like hell on your arm," she tells him. "Try not to scream though, we don't wanna attract any visitors."

Tony gives her a withering look, and then, after a heavy sigh, he plunges himself beneath the water. His screams are muffled, and water splashes over the edge of the bath, staining Salme's dress and soaking Natasha's hair.

He surfaces, eyes wide, lungs struggling for breath, his saturated hair plastered to his head. Steam rises off of his skin, and he raises his arm out of the water to inspect it.

"Keep it in," Salme says sharply. Tony follows orders, sinking his arm beneath the water again, biting into his bottom lip, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Will you be okay to look after him?" Natasha asks Salme, who nods.

"Go," she says. "I'll lock the door, we'll be fine."

"I'll leave you with the spear, just in case," Natasha says, pushing herself to her feet.

"What about you?" Tony grunts, opening his eyes.

"I'll improvise," she says, then turns to Salme. "Lock the door, keep quiet, and one of us will come and find you as soon as it's over, okay?"

Salme nods, and Natasha departs quickly, her nerves settling when she hears the click of the lock behind her. She skirts along the edge of the corridor, ears straining to hear the slightest hint of anybody nearby. There is nothing but the distant rumble of battle however, which grows louder and louder with every step she takes. As she nears the doors to the throne room, the chaos inside no less than when she left, her hands flex, longing for a weapon. She glances up at the torch brackets on the wall, then down at the fixings, wondering if it will simply lift free. She crosses over to it, casting her eyes in each direction along the corridor to ensure she is alone before she focuses on the torch. She can feel the heat of it from five paces away, and figures that if she can feel the heat, then the frost giants certainly will.

Like everything on Asgard, the torch is cumbersome, but it does come out of its fixture with ease, and she holds it at her side like a battering ram as she strides towards the doors, her shoulders square, ready to descend into mayhem once more.

She doesn't distinguish between which frost giants are in battle and which are roaming, itching for a fight. Every time she sees blue, she uses all the force she can muster to send the torch slamming into a statuesque body. The iron is so dense that the frost giants don't stand a chance against it. Unlike the spear, which took monumental effort to pierce through the ice, the torch crashes into their bodies like a truck slamming through a sheet of glass.

Unfortunately her newfound weapon makes her quite the target, and though Clint does his best to pick her attackers off from afar, she knows he won't fire if there's even the slightest chance of him hitting her or one of the Asgardians. Thankfully Steve comes to her aid, wielding the hammer with ease, apparently used to its powers by now. He's certainly had a baptism of fire with it, though she supposes they've all been dropped in at the deep end today.

She swings the torch like a baseball bat, her muscles burning with the strain, and it collides with the head of a frost giant, knocking it clean off of his shoulders.

"Where's Stark?" Steve calls over the ruckus.

"Being looked after," Natasha yells back, ducking and taking out the legs of an oncoming frost giant with one low sweep of the torch.

The floor starts to shake, as the thunderous sound of heavy footfalls draws nearer. Everybody turns anxiously towards the door, not knowing whether it's friend or foe who approaches. Natasha takes the opportunity to take out a trio of frost giants in quick succession while they're distracted, ignoring the stinging of her raw and blistered hands. While the torch is an effective method of attack, it's not her favourite weapon she's ever laid hands on. It's almost as bad as piano wire, but just as grimly efficient.

Bruce storms into the room, and sends his huge fist flying into the face of the nearest frost giant, causing him to crash into the far wall. Sif and a handful of triumphant guards arrive moments after Bruce, throwing themselves into battle, swords, spears and shields raised and ready. The Asgardians outnumber the remaining frost giants now, and when Natasha is barged off her feet, Fandral picks her back up again, a huge grin on his face. He swoops to pick up her torch and hands it to her.

"My lady," he says politely, before he turns away and thrusts his sword into the gut of a frost giant. "Nearly done now!" he says cheerfully.

"Finished in time for breakfast, I think!" Volstagg calls over, wrenching his axe out of the back of a lifeless frost giant. "I've worked up quite the appetite!"

"You _always_ have quite the appetite!" Fandral retorts, swiftly blocking an oncoming attack and retaliating with one of his own. It seems that they, like her, have been hardened by combat to the extent that they can toss around jokes as freely as if they were sitting down and having a beer together. Personally, she finds it makes things go quicker, that she is able to breathe easy in those moments of lightness. It's a respite from the paranoia and the stress, and without those brief interludes, she wouldn't be able to keep going for as long as she does.

From behind her she hears a clatter, and as she turns she sees Loki's spear skidding across the floor. She looks up at him, a flicker of panic crossing his face as he darts to his left to avoid the tip of an icy blade. He pulls his dagger from his belt, and Natasha drops down to pick up his spear, but before she can even think about tossing it to him, there is the horrible clink of ice on stone.

She runs, knowing better than to think the worst. But just in case, she runs.

When she reaches them, her stomach lurches as she sees that the frost giant's blade is buried deep in Loki's chest, Loki's hands scrabbling at it fruitlessly. She's not sure if she imagines it, but his fingertips look as though they're darkening at the contact.

"That was for my father," the frost giant growls, its angry face inches from Loki's slack one.

"Oh," Loki breathes, a brief moment of recognition in his eyes. His hands, now completely blue, falling away from the frost giant's arm, his body slumping forwards, held up only by the blade pinning him to the palace wall.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Two more chapters to post after this, but just the one for me to write. There'll be a companion one-shot that will follow after this finishes, but it won't be Blackfrost centric. It'll be focused on another character, but I'm super excited for it because it's something I haven't really dabbled in before. Anyway, thanks for the reviews to the last chapter, I know I was evil with that cliffhanger. Hope you like this chapter!

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She can't think. The sound of the battle is drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears, the thud of her pulse, and the hitch of her breath in her throat. She drops Loki's spear to the floor, where it lands with a dull clatter, her hands numb, nerve endings unresponsive.

There is a whoosh and the frost giant's arm shatters as an arrow pierces it, shards of ice skittering over the floor, the frost giant stumbles backwards, clutching at his jagged stump of an arm. At this, the world comes back into focus, and Natasha springs into action, swinging her torch and smashing it against his chest. He puts up a fight, but Natasha has had a fresh surge of adrenalin. Not only that but she's now running on the additional fuel of fear, and she doesn't stop beating the frost giant with her torch until he is scattered into minute pieces. She wants to destroy every last inch of him, the fire in her veins telling her that she cannot stop until he is nothing but shards and slush.

When her tired arms can take it no more, her muscles stretched and strained, she drops the torch onto the remains of the frost giant's body. She turns, her legs trembling, and she stumbles towards Loki, dropping to her knees beside him, not caring about the pain as her knee caps smash into the marble.

He's blue, there's no doubt about it now. His skin is devoid of any human, or even Asgardian colouring, and there are lines on his face, similar to those she has seen on her opponents today. His eyelids open slowly, revealing deep scarlet eyes, glazed with pain and dwindling energy.

There is a rush of footsteps, and Clint appears, crouched on Loki's other side. He looks across at her, his blue eyes boring into her own. She knows that look. She _hates_ that look. She shakes her head and looks down at Loki again, reaching out to clasp his hand. To her surprise, he pulls away from her, his blue fist clenched and shaking.

"Don't!" he says, his voice cracking. "It'll hurt you."

She couldn't give any less of a damn, and so she closes her hand around his. It's cold, certainly, and her fingers go numb rather quickly, but there is no pain, no sizzle of flesh, no blackened skin. Loki lets out a sigh, resting his head back against the floor, his unfamiliar eyes staring at the ceiling. He is simultaneously Loki and _not Loki_ in this form, some of his features remaining exactly as she knows them, while others have transformed, leaving him uncomfortably different in small, subtle ways.

"Where are the healers?" Natasha asks, ignoring the roar of the battle behind her, the clanging of swords on ice.

"Downstairs," Loki chokes, blinking away tears. Natasha looks down at the blade in his body, slick with water, already melting. They need to act quickly, but she doesn't want to do him any more damage by moving him.

The crash of the battle draws near, and both Natasha and Clint turn around, Clint with his bow loaded, Natasha with her fists clenched, ready to pummel the life out of any frost giant who dares to come too close. It turns out that Sif is the source of the noise, battling through a small group of frost giants in order to get to them, cracking one in the face with her shield without so much as sparing it a glance. Her face drains of colour when she sees Loki, and she lowers her shield, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

A frost giant charges at her from behind, and Natasha opens her mouth to yell at her to move, but in a flash of green, the danger is cleared, crushed by a large hand, as Bruce tumbles past, surging towards the largest remaining group.

"Get Thor!" Natasha yells to Sif, and she nods, her face pale, lower lip quivering, then she turns away, sprinting towards the exit.

"Don't send for him," Loki groans. "He'll only cause a scene."

Natasha blinks, her eyes prickling at the edges as she looks down at him, his entire body trembling as he tries to not show any signs of pain.

"It's gonna be okay," she says, squeezing his hand tightly, forcing out a reassuring smile. She looks across to Clint, who is keeping his eyes on the battle, ready for anyone who might try and take advantage of their distraction. "Go and get one of the others, we need to move him, if we leave him here he's just gonna…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but Clint's cold expression softens under her gaze, and he pushes himself to his feet, darting through the mayhem. Natasha returns her attention to Loki, and reaches out to brush his hair away from his face. His breath flutters against the skin of her arm, cool like morning mist, and she rests her hand against the side of his face, gritting her teeth at the chill that spreads through her.

"Doesn't it hurt?" he asks, his voice weak.

"Russians are used to the cold," she says softly. "This is nothing."

A small smile curves the corner of his mouth, but then he coughs, his chest spasming as a mixture of blood and water speckles the front of Natasha's armour. A cold unrelated to Loki's icy form creeps over her, the all too familiar sensation of dread pooling in her gut. She turns around to look for Clint, and she sees him making his way through the crowd, Fandral in tow, whose brow is cut, a small amount of blood trickling down the side of his face, but he's otherwise fine.

"Oh my," he says when he reaches them, his eyes wide as he looks down at Loki. "Come on old chap, let's get you to the healers."

His cheery façade doesn't fool any of them, least of all Loki, who bestows as withering a look as he can muster on Fandral as the latter stoops low to lift him off the ground. He leads the way to the nearest door, Natasha and Clint following him, keeping their eyes on the action, ready to strike, but as soon as they make it into the corridor, Natasha hurries forward to fall into step with him, and rests her hand on Loki's shoulder.

They hurry down a staircase, Loki hissing in pain as the movement jars his wound, and Natasha tries her best to ignore it, to forge on, because there is nothing that can be done until they get him to the healers. All the same, every wince, every groan, it hits her in a way that she isn't used to, like a punch to the gut that will leave no marks except the ones on her memory.

"Nearly there," Fandral says, walking swiftly along the corridor, trying to hold Loki as steady as he can. They turn the corner at the end and are met with another set of steps. Knowing that she will not like what she hears, she hurries ahead, under the guise of checking that the coast is clear on the floor below. The only evidence that frost giants were ever in this part of the palace is the occasional puddle of water or scattering of ice fragments.

Eventually they reach a set of large oak doors, and Natasha tries to push one of them open, but it won't budge. She looks to Clint, who, without hesitation, rams his shoulder against it, but his efforts are useless. It's locked from the inside, and so Natasha pounds her fists against the wood, knowing that somebody must be inside.

"Open up!" she yells. "We need help!"

There is a shuffling sound behind the door, followed by scraping as something heavy is dragged across the floor. At long last comes the metallic scrape of the bolts being drawn, and the door is opened a fraction, a set of brown eyes peeping through. Natasha steps aside, allowing the healer to get a good look at Loki, and the door is pulled wide open immediately. Fandral hurries inside, laying Loki gently on the nearest table as the healers gather around.

"I don't understand," one of them says as she looks down at him. "Have the frost giants turned him into one of them?"

"Out of the way," an elderly healer snaps. "And don't ask such _ridiculous_ questions." She waves her hand, and a three dimensional image of Loki's body appears above him, formed from small specks of golden light. The healer inspects the damage from all angles, before she thrusts the scan away with another wave of her hand, and it dissolves into nothingness.

"Get the painkillers," the healer says, rolling up her sleeves, revealing her lean arms. "He's going to need them."

"Is he going to be all right?" Natasha asks, taking a step closer towards the table. Fandral pulls her back into line with him and Clint.

"Give them space," he murmurs. "He couldn't be in better hands."

She pulls away from him, pacing at the edge of the room, forcing herself not to look over to Loki. She wouldn't see much if she did, but for the twitch of his boot or the flinch of his fingers. When he lets out a piercing howl, she stops dead in her tracks, stomach acid rising in her throat, her head full of him and his screams. It's as though someone has switched off her brain - she can't pull together a single thought, and she isn't able to until she hears the clink of ice on stone as the offending blade is laid to one side.

His breathing is ragged now, his coughs becoming weaker but more and more frequent, and Natasha resumes her pacing, her fists clenched at her sides. Fandral sinks down onto his haunches, his back resting against the wall of the healing room, his face buried in his hands. Clint is standing in the corner, his arms folded, watching as the healers grab bottles and dishes, streams of bandages and fine golden surgical tools. Natasha can't watch, however, she wants to leave the room to be frank, but she can't leave _him_. Not when these might be his final moments. She won't abandon him for the sake of her own feelings. She's not that much of a coward.

The door bursts open, and the healers gasp, Loki momentarily forgotten by all except the elderly healer, who glances up for a millisecond, then returns her focus to her work. Fandral springs to his feet, sword drawn, but when Thor strides into the room, his face drawn and gaunt, Fandral sheaths his sword, and hurries over to Thor, standing between him and the table on which Loki lies.

"Let them work, Thor. You know it's for the best."

"I want to see my _brother_," he growls.

"And you _shall_ when I have _finished_," the healer says snippily, looking up long enough to fix Thor with a cool stare. "Hush now, or you shall all have to wait outside."

"How is he?" Sif murmurs to Natasha quietly, closing the doors of the healing room as softly as she can. Natasha shrugs, fiddling with the bolts at the side of her armour, her fingers trembling as she unscrews them. She wonders why he wasn't wearing any. Did he really think that he wouldn't need it? Was he so certain that no one would dare lay a finger on him? Or did he think himself impervious to the frost giants? Perhaps he just didn't give it a moment's thought, so concerned with everything else that the idea of protecting himself didn't even cross his mind. Whatever his reasoning, he's an idiot, that much is certain. He's a stupid idiot, and he needs to make it out of this so she can tell him that herself.

She lifts her armour slowly over her head, her muscles tired and aching. She sets the chest plate on the floor, leaning it against the wall, then sits down next to it, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of them. After a moment, Thor joins her, his lank blond hair shielding his face from her as he bows his head. Nobody says a word, the halls above them now eerily silent, and the healers work on. Loki is still now, the blue fading from his skin and leaving behind a ghostly white. Natasha closes her eyes and tries to relax, but all thoughts of clear, open spaces that might settle her are interrupted by flashes of the battle, the image of Loki pinned to the wall flaring up more times than she ever needs to see.

When she opens her eyes, she sees that Sif is talking quietly with Fandral in the far corner. She rubs her hand against her forearm, which is sporting four thin dark lines, assumedly caused by the fingertips of a frost giant. The marks remind her of Tony, and she pushes herself to her feet and approaches them. They stop talking when she reaches them, waiting for her to speak.

"Tony's in my bathroom with Salme," she says. "He's hurt."

"We're going to see if the battle is over," Sif tells her quietly. "We'll have somebody find Mr Stark and bring him here to be treated."

"Thank you," Natasha replies, her voice catching in her throat. "If there's anything I can do to help with clean up or…"

"Stay here," Sif says kindly, placing her hand on Natasha's shoulder. "You will be of far greater benefit to Loki."

Natasha nods, placing her hands on her hips and breathing deeply. From the corner of her eye she can see the elderly healer's forearms, smeared with scarlet blood, her brow contorted into a deep frown as she concentrates, her lips pursed. Natasha looks down at her boots. They're a poor fit, and her feet are sore, her ankles aching from trudging around in such heavy footwear. She might be considered a superhero on Earth but up here on Asgard she's constantly playing catch up. She's not built to play with the big boys and girls.

"She's been a healer longer than Loki has been _alive_," Fandral whispers, glancing over to the healer, then back to Natasha. "She knows what she's doing."

"Yeah…" Natasha sighs. "Yeah…"

"We'll return soon," Sif tells her, and she and Fandral leave the healing room. Natasha stares at the wall, chewing on her lip, but then she hears the clunk of the surgical scissors being set down on the stone table with a chilling sense of finality.

"Loki?" the healer says, wiping her hands on her skirt before gently tapping the side of his face. Thor looks up, meeting Natasha's gaze, and they both turn towards the table, hoping against hope that at last, they might be getting some good news.

Loki lets out a weak groan, his fingers twitching, and Natasha's heart leaps into her throat.

"Loki, come, open your eyes," the healer says, more firmly now. "You've had worse than this before and knowing you, you'll likely have worse again."

Through the gap between the healers, Natasha can see Loki's eyelids flicker open. He lets out a soft breath, his face still holding a slight tinge of blue to it.

"We're going to put you into a deep sleep," the healer explains to him slowly. "You need rest. All right?"

"_No_," Loki says, and though he chokes on the word, though it brings specks of blood to his lips, they all hear him loud and clear. "_Don't_, _please_."

Thor pushes himself to his feet and rushes over, all healers except the one in charge scattering. Natasha follows him, clenching her fists, trying to ignore the obvious tremble in her fingers.

"Loki, it's going to be all right," Thor says, cupping his face and smiling down at him, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "I swear to you brother, it's going to be fine."

Loki shakes his head, his eyes wide and panicked. "Don't let them Thor, please don't let them."

"You have nothing to fear," Thor says over Loki's whispers. "You just need to relax, and all will be well. And when you are better, we'll go out to the lakes and catch game, we'll build a fire, just like we used to, do you remember, Loki?"

"Don't let them do it," Loki says again. "Thor, please, I beg of you…"

Thor shushes him, his hand finding Loki's and squeezing it tightly. "Go to sleep and I will be here when you wake up, I _swear_."

Natasha moves around the table so that Loki can see her, and when she brushes her fingertips against his cheek, her looks up at her, his eyes returned to their normal colour but for the faint pinkness around the edges. "Go to sleep," she tells him, painfully aware of the loaded syringe poised in the hand of the healer. "It's okay. I'll stay with you, I promise."

Loki relaxes at this, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Without warning, the healer slides the syringe into his forearm, her thumb forcing the plunger down quickly before Loki can wriggle away. The sedative takes effect quickly, Loki losing consciousness before he can utter another word, his body going slack, head lolling to one side. Thor lets out a heavy sigh of defeat and disentangles his hand from Loki's, turning away and skulking over to the far wall. He rests his forehead and his fists against it, then after a moment lets out a roar of rage, ramming his knuckles into the wall. A crack forms, like a spider's web, chips of stone and grains of dust tumbling to the floor. He hits the wall again, the force reverberating throughout the entire room, the healers scurrying away to the chamber beyond, all except for the one in charge, who remains, unperturbed, by Loki's side.

Natasha doesn't understand. Loki's been stitched up, he's asleep, he's _recovering_, so why all the rage? She looks down at him and her hand finds his, her fingertips sliding to his wrist to take his pulse. It's weak, incredibly weak, and reality hits her with a cruel, stinging slap.

Loki _knew_. Loki saw through Thor's lies, through the healer's lies. She was dumb enough to believe them, to think that Asgardian healers and special sedatives that would let him rest peacefully would be all he needed. All they could do was take away the pain and the fear, make false promises that everything would be fine, and she had _joined them_. Unknowingly, yes, but she had told him it would be okay, because she thought it _would be_.

"Is there any chance he'll pull through?" she asks, her voice croaky from the lump in her throat.

"Very slim," the healer sighs. "I'll keep an eye on him. This is for the best."

"The best?" Natasha questions. "Putting him down like a _dog_? He's your _king_."

"And what would you have me do, girl?" the healer snaps. "Leave him lying there in agony? Have him scream his way into death?"

Natasha says nothing. She can't argue with that. The alternative isn't an option at all. She lifts Loki's cool hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his skin. She promised him it would be okay, but that's out of her hands. Her other promise, however, she can keep, and so she stays, his hand clasped in hers, while the rest of the universe continues on, unaware of the ache in her heart.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **I finished the last chapter a few hours ago. Only thing left to do is some editing on it. And then, of course, I'll have to start work on that one shot that's been giving my brain feels for the last 24 hours. In the meantime however, you guys can read this, and I'm going to watch the first episode of Game of Thrones to see what the fuss is all about.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"I keep hoping it's just a magic trick," Thor says, looking down at his feet. He glances up, giving Natasha a brief sad smile, but it fades quickly. "Like last time. Just like last time…"

Natasha has nothing to say. She won't tell him it's going to be fine, that _Loki's_ going to be fine, because she can't lie, not when they both know that the odds are stacked sky high against them. She shifts in her chair, and rests her head on the heel of her palm, watching Loki, waiting for any sign of movement, anything that might suggest that he's coming back to them. She's been watching him for three days now, and he's yet to give any indication of an improvement in his health. Thor has stayed the entire time, the two of them taking it in turns to sleep. She's not sure why one of them has to be awake, she just feels that they need to be, that they owe it to him.

The clanking of armour announces Sif's arrival, and she stops at the foot of the bed, her eyes on Loki. After a moment, she turns her gaze to Thor.

"How is he?" she asks softly, as though concerned about disturbing him. She won't wake him, not even if she screams in his face. He's out for the count.

"The same," Thor sighs. "But alive, which is good."

Sif looks down at the floor, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers fidgeting anxiously.

"What's the matter?" Thor asks, frowning at her hands then looking back up at Sif's face, her brow creased with concern, lips pressed into a thin, worried line.

"There are orders that need to be signed," Sif says slowly. "By the king." She glances towards Loki and then back at Thor, taking a deep breath. "Somebody needs to act in his stead while he's…" She trails off, unsure of what word is most appropriate for Loki's current state.

"_Recovering_," Natasha says carefully, and Sif nods, glad that someone has filled the gap for her.

"Temporarily, obviously, but as there's no heir…"

"I'm not leaving him," Thor says through gritted teeth. "I will not take his throne from him while he lays here, on the brink of death."

"You wouldn't be _taking it_," Sif says exasperatedly. "You'd be looking after it."

Thor shakes his head. "He wouldn't see it like that. I told him I would be here when he wakes up, and I _shall_."

"So the palace is to sit in ruins because you won't sign the orders to start work on it?" She's losing patience now, her hands having lost their anxiousness, and now clenched into frustrated fists. "Thor - "

"_You do it_," Thor interrupts. "He trusts your judgement, as do I, so you do it."

Sif stares at him as though he's lost his mind. "Thor, I'm not even _remotely_ a part of the royal family, I can't - "

"The people need a leader," Thor says stubbornly, his mind made up now. "And you will make a fine leader." He stands, approaching her, then takes her hand in his. "Lady Sif, as Prince of Asgard I hereby give you authority to make any decisions necessary during the king's absence." He releases her hand and circles around the bed to pick up Loki's spear, leant against the wall. He holds it out to her, and she hesitates, before her hand closes around it. "Nobody will question your authority when you show them this," Thor assures her. "And if they do, send them to me."

Sif blinks, dumbstruck for a moment, but then she pulls herself together, and it's as though the lights have turned back on inside her head. Her lips curve into a small smile. "If anybody questions my authority I think I can deal with them myself," she says. "But thank you all the same."

The three of them turn at the sound of footsteps, and Bruce ambles in, his face fixed in an expression of confusion. When he sees them, he stops in his tracks, rubbing his hands together absentmindedly. He's not looking great after his stay in the dungeons, and his transformation will certainly not have helped matters. He's clean however, and is sporting an Asgardian outfit just like the rest of them, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, glasses tucked into his breast pocket.

"I was looking for Tony," he says slowly, hanging back, apparently concerned that he's walked in on something he shouldn't have. "But there's some other guy in his bed."

"They moved him," Natasha tells him. "He's been making a good recovery so he's in a different chamber now."

"Oh," Bruce says, nodding his head. He looks around the room, anywhere but at Loki, but when he can pretend no longer, he takes a few uncertain steps forward. "How is he?" he asks, gesturing awkwardly towards Loki.

"Still alive," Natasha replies.

Bruce nods. "That's good, that's good…" he says distractedly.

"You don't have to pretend to care," Natasha tells him. She doesn't say it in an accusatory way, just in a simple, plain, statement of fact kind of way. Nobody would judge any of them for not giving a damn whether Loki lives or dies, particularly Bruce and Clint, who not only suffered terribly at Loki's hands during his exploits on Earth, but were the last to be released from the cells, with the sole purpose of fighting on Loki's side. Neither of them got to see any side to Loki other than that which they already knew, while Natasha, Steve, Jane and even Tony, to a certain extent, were able to see him in a more comfortable setting. Bruce wasn't granted such a luxury, so she won't be offended by him not considering Loki's health to be even a passing concern.

"Well," Bruce says with a shrug, reaching up to his pocket to fiddle with his glasses. "He saved Tony's life, so he can't be all bad."

"No," Thor says quietly. "He's not all bad."

"And you trust him," Bruce continues, his eyes on Natasha. "And you don't trust _anybody_."

"Well, I wouldn't say I _trust him_," she replies, shifting in her chair to a more comfortable position.

"Come, Dr Banner," Sif says, before the conversation can get any more awkward for Natasha. "I'll show you where Mr Stark is."

"Thanks," Bruce says, as Sif leads the way to the corridor on the right hand side of the room. "Nice spear by the way."

They disappear into the hallway, the sound of their conversation fading along with their footsteps, and Natasha sighs, reaching out and taking Loki's cool hand in her own. She rests her fingers against the inside of his wrist, making a note of his pulse. It's unchanged, still slow, still faint, but still clinging on.

* * *

Her neck is stiff. Despite all assurances from Thor that he will send someone for her if Loki wakes, she stubbornly refuses to sleep in her bedroom. Her body feels as though it's been moulded into a new shape by the chair, and after the amount of hours she's spent in it, she's not surprised. She stretches her arms high above her head, yawning deeply, and opens her eyes. The first rays of sunlight are streaming in through the high arched window opposite, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air. Thor is snoring gently in the chair on the other side of Loki's bed. She can't remember who was supposed to be awake last, but she doesn't suppose it matters. Loki hasn't moved a muscle during the night.

When she hears movement, she turns her head sharply, twisting in her chair to get a better view. Salme and Kari are crouched on the floor behind the headboard, a basket of yellow flowers sitting between them.

"What are you doing?" Natasha asks.

The pair of them gasp, apparently unaware that she was even awake, and Kari's eyes widen with fear. It seems they hadn't bargained on getting caught.

"Please, Lady Natasha," Salme says carefully, looking up at Natasha, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. "We just wanted to bring the king some flowers."

Natasha looks down at the basket, then sees that they have entwined the flowers around the legs of the bed, spiralling upwards, the yellow petals a bright contrast to the cold dark grey of the wrought iron bedstead. It certainly brightens the place up, and so she allows them to continue, unable to find it within herself to send them away. The flowers will wilt and die before Loki wakes up, and she doesn't suppose the healers will be too pleased with fallen petals littering the bed and the floor, but it is their way of showing their affection, and who is she to deny them of that?

"They appear on the first day of spring," Salme tells her, threading the end of one stem through the hole in the end of another. "They stay all summer. They grow everywhere, alongside the paths, on the hills, by the lakes…"

"When the first one blossoms," Kari adds. "We know that winter is truly behind us."

Natasha sighs. She knows what they're getting at, knows that three dozen guards must have seen Loki's blue skin as Fandral carried him from the throne room. Not only that, but of the handful of healers saw him, it was only the elderly one who hadn't been surprised by the transformation. Perhaps she had known all Loki's life what he was, known longer even than he had himself.

"Does everybody know?"

Salme and Kari nod in unison.

"But nobody cares," Salme adds quickly when Natasha rests her head against the back of her chair and gazes up at the ceiling, letting out a quiet huff. "Nobody cares. He is our king, and he is a _good king_."

"Really?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow sceptically. "You're telling me that nobody gives a damn that their king is…"

"Born of the enemy?" Kari finishes unhelpfully. Salme frowns and swats her on the arm, and Kari falls silent.

"There will be some who wish to spread rumours and start trouble," Salme says knowingly. "But we all know that our king fought the frost giants. He was raised an Asgardian, treated us all as well as we ever could have hoped. Why would we cast him out now?"

"You know him though," Natasha tells her. "You see him differently to how everybody else sees him. Some people will remember when he tried to take over my realm, and they won't ever see anything else. No matter how many good things you do, they never completely erase the bad. Some people like to hold on to the bad. They know the value of it."

"Well I shan't hear a word against him," Salme says firmly, taking another flower from the basket and poking a hole into its stem with a thick shiny needle. "He is brave, he is strong, and he is kind. That's the end of it."

Kari nods in agreement, rising up on her knees to twine her flower chain around the top of the bed frame.

"And he's going to be fine," Salme adds. Then, in a much quieter voice, as though reassuring herself, she says: "He has to be."

Natasha watches them for a moment, their fingers working quickly and expertly on the flowers, as though they have passed a thousand sun drenched afternoons on hillsides making flower chains since they were children. The large yellow petals seem to glow in the sunlight streaming in through the window, and their presence manages to reflect just a little colour onto Loki's pale features. If nothing else, it gives the illusion that he's getting better,

"You guys really care about him, don't you?" she says. "I mean, not just because he pays your wages."

"He gave us our freedom," Kari says. "Were it not for him employing us, we would have been passed from our fathers to husbands like some sort of heirloom, but as it is, we can earn our own living. I earn more than my father, at any rate." She says the last bit proudly, perhaps a little smugly, but Natasha can't find that she blames her. Things are still pretty medieval in Asgard where certain things are concerned, and the fact that a gesture as simple as employing young girls and paying them a fair wage is such a big deal speaks volumes about the place.

"You work harder than your father," Salme says to Kari, giving her a meaningful look. "I've never seen your father lift a finger."

Kari sniggers quietly, but her amusement soon fades and she lets out a sigh, fiddling with the placement of her flowers, trying to get them to sit just right. She leans over the headboard, gazing down at Loki, her fingers curling around the top of the bed frame. "Wake up," she whispers. "Please."

Natasha looks to Salme, who is sorting through the flowers, apparently deaf to Kari's quiet pleas. Something about the way they're behaving suggests to Natasha that this is not the first time they have visited the healing chambers in the early hours of the morning.

Time passes slowly, and when the entire room is bathed in golden sunlight, and the flower basket is empty, only a few crinkled green leaves lying at the bottom of it, Salme and Kari declare their work to be done. Natasha turns in her chair so she can take a good look at it. There must be two hundred flowers at least, winding their way around the bars of the headboard, their bright green stems twisted elegantly, not a single petal out of place. She's not sure if it's her imagination, but Natasha is certain she feels warmer for their presence. It is something of a comfort, if she's being honest. She likes to know that she's not the only one who cares. Through the long nights that drag on in silence, even if both she and Thor are wide awake, she has often found herself asking the same questions over and over. Why stay? Why care? Why waste her time? She can never come up with a good enough answer, and yet she never moves. To know that she is not the only one who harbours such feelings of loyalty makes her feel like less of an idiot, though she doubts very much that Loki has ever used Kari or Salme as pawns in a game, nor has he ever imprisoned them. Nevertheless, it makes her feel less alone. Unlike Thor she doesn't have the strong family ties that date back a millennia. She just has two experiences, both at odds with each other, both with completely different Lokis involved.

"It looks very beautiful," she says at last. "You've done a good job."

The girls smile in appreciation, and Salme loops the basket over her arm.

"I'll bring you some breakfast in a little while," Kari says softly. "And some for the prince as well." She pauses and frowns, then says to Salme: "You might have to help me carry it. I hear he eats nearly as much as Volstagg."

The quiet of the healing chambers is broken by the sound of footsteps, and Salme and Kari rush for the nearest door, disappearing through it just as the elderly healer walks into the room, a stern expression on her face. She approaches the bed, giving Natasha a nod of greeting, and checks Loki's pulse, efficiency taking precedence over gentleness. When she has counted long enough, she sets his arm back down on the mattress and moves up towards his head. She carefully pulls one eyelid open with her thumb, peering into the green, unseeing eye beneath. The pink tinge around the whites of his eyes has gone now, and there is no physical trace left of his brief transformation.

The healer straightens up, pursing her lips as she looks at the flowers, then turns to Natasha, curled up in the armchair.

"What's this nonsense?" she asks, gesturing towards the flowers.

"To keep the cold away, so I'm told," Natasha replies, meeting her eye and not daring to blink. She feels strangely protective of Salme and Kari's efforts, but to her surprise, she needn't be. At her words, the healer's expression softens, the corners of her mouth turning upwards in a rare smile. She leans down, lifting Loki's head carefully with one hand and plumping up his pillows with another, before setting him down once more. Her hand brushes against the side of his face as she straightens up, a hint of maternal tenderness in her gaze as she looks down at him.

"He's always been stubborn," she sighs. "Even as a boy. Always coming to the healing room with grazes and cuts from where he'd been playing with the others. Always refusing to have a bandage because _Thor never needs bandages_." She shakes her head and smiles sadly. "Call me if there's any change," she says, smoothing out her skirt, her normal, hardened expression falling back into place. "I'll be with the others."

She leaves, and only a few minutes pass before Thor stirs, blinking blearily awake, squinting in the sunlight.

"Any news?" he asks.

Natasha shakes her head, and what little hope there was on Thor's face is wiped off of it with one callous blow. When he spots the flowers, he pauses, then reaches out to stroke his fingers against the velvet soft petals. A small smile breaks its way onto his face, a little of his lost hope reigniting behind his eyes.

* * *

Visitors wander in and out over the next few days. Sif comes by several times a day to see if there's been any change in Loki, sometimes bringing Fandral or Volstagg along with her. Jane will often stay for hours at a time, her head resting against Thor's shoulder as they all sit in silence, eyes on Loki's motionless form. Tony stops by after he's been given the all clear, his arm supported by a sling, though he is otherwise fine. His recovery is the catalyst that sends the others home. Apparently none of them felt right leaving him here, despite knowing that he was in the capable hands of the healers.

"I don't mind hanging back if you want somebody to stay," Steve offers, standing at the foot of Loki's bed.

Natasha shakes her head. "No," she says. "You go home."

"You sure?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," she replies. "Sure. Thanks though."

"It's okay," Steve says with a shrug. "I uh…hope he gets well soon." He gestures towards Loki, and Thor stands up, taking a few steps towards Steve. He holds out his hand, and Steve, takes it, shaking it with a firm grip.

"Thank you for your assistance in protecting our realm, Captain," he says. "The people of Asgard are forever in your debt."

Steve smiles awkwardly, unused to such high praise. He mutters something about it being the right thing to do before he bids them goodbye. It's not long before Clint wanders into the healing chamber for the first time, looking slightly sheepish. She hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since they transferred Loki, though she cannot blame him for that. He did more than she could have asked of him by helping her get Loki to safety, and more than that, he fired the arrow that severed the frost giant's arm from Loki. He's done more than his fair share, so she didn't expect for a moment that he ought to show his face in this room.

"We're heading off in a little while," he says quietly. "Steve said he offered to stay and you turned him down and…well, I just thought I'd offer as well."

"You hate him," Natasha says. "Why would I ever ask you to hang around and wait for him to get better?"

Clint shrugs. "Doesn't matter how I feel. How you feel matters."

She lets out a soft sigh, and Thor pretends to be interested in the inscriptions on the back of the medicine bottle on the bedside table. He must read the tiny script a dozen times over, but Natasha doesn't comment on it.

"I'll be fine," she says at last.

"I know you'll be fine," Clint says, "You're _always_ fine, but I can stay if you want. Offer's there, I don't care either way."

"I think one of us probably needs to be on Earth," she jokes, and Clint's mouth curves into a small smirk.

"I guess you're right," he says, kicking the toe of his boot against the floor, his hands in his pockets. "So I'll see you when you get back?"

Natasha nods, and he seems satisfied.

There come a point, around half an hour later, when she realises that they're all gone, back to Earth, lightyears away. The knowledge leaves her feeling incredibly lonely, despite Thor's presence, despite Jane choosing to stay with them. For some reason she feels distanced from her friends in more ways than just the mere physical fact that they are in separate realms. She tells herself it's stupid, because it _is_, and she rests the side of her head against her chair, allowing her eyelids to flutter shut, sleep taking hold of her.

It's dark when she wakes, and all the torches have been extinguished. She squints in the blackness, and sees Thor's large form, still as a statue, and presumes he has fallen asleep. The sound of erratic, ragged breathing punctures her concentration, and she leans forward, pressing her hand against Loki's chest, his heart beat strong under his rib cage.

"Are you awake?" she breathes. "Loki? Are you awake?"

"Yes," he replies in a dry, choked tone. "Natasha?"

"Yeah," she says softly, reaching out to the bedside table and fumbling with the candle lighter. It takes her a couple of goes to ignite it, and she holds the small flame against the candle wick, waiting for it to take. When it does, she drops the lighter back onto the table and leans closer to Loki, desperate for her eyes to confirm that he's okay.

"You're still here," he murmurs. He lifts his hand, his fingers trembling, muscles weak, and twines a lock of her hair around his fingers. "You're still here…"

"Of course I am," she tells him, closing her hands around his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I promised. And Thor's here too…"

"Oh well that's just unnecessary," he says, his dark eyebrows drawing into a frown. Natasha lets out a small breath of laughter and presses his hand to the side of her face, relieved beyond measure to finally feel warmth in it again.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **And so we come to the end. Thank you to everybody who has reviewed, and I hope you have enjoyed the journey. I'll post a one-shot sequel to this (not Natasha or Loki centric, but something slightly different) when I've had chance to write it. And while we're shamelessly plugging, I posted a one-shot about an hour ago called Fragments that _is_ strictly Blackfrost. Sort of. Anyway, hope you enjoy this final instalment.

* * *

**Mutiny**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"This is good," Jane says, having swallowed down the last of her meat. She turns the bone over in her hand, looking for any bits she might have missed, then looks up towards Thor. "What is it?"

"Rabbit," he answers, stripping the last of the meat off of his own section. Jane lets out a noise of disgust and drops the bone, kicking it away from her and into the fire.

"Gross!" she exclaims, wiping her hands off on the grass before she grabs one of the flasks of ale and unscrews the cap rapidly, downing a good few mouthfuls of it to rinse her mouth out.

Natasha smirks, then tosses her own bare leg bone into the fire too. She leans back on the heels of her palms, staring up into the sky, the night black now, stars shining brightly overhead, her view unimpeded by the light pollution that she is used to back home.

"I can't believe you sat there and let me eat dead rabbit," Jane mutters, screwing the cap back on the flask, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

Thor chuckles heartily. "Would you have preferred it to be live, Jane?" he asks. Loki lets out a brief snigger, then nibbles at a dark strip of meat close to the bone. He narrows his eyes, lowering the bone from his mouth and sits up straight.

"We could arrange for venison if you'd prefer," he says softly, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Natasha sits up too, and follows his eye line to a dark shadow moving amongst the trees at the edge of the forest, twigs snapping lightly under its hooves. Loki carefully reaches for his dagger, then pushes himself up, onto his knees, ready to stand, but Natasha grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him back down.

"Don't be an _idiot_," she says impatiently. "You'll rupture something."

"Says the human to the god…" he replies sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah," Natasha says. "Says the human who got through the battle of gods and frost giants without so much as a scratch, to the god who's got a hole in his damn chest."

Thor smirks, but says nothing, and when Natasha takes the knife from Loki, he doesn't try to stop her.

"Who wants venison?" she asks quietly, standing up and peering towards the trees, trying to detect any sign of movement.

"I do," Loki answers, picking up a large stick and stoking the fire, puffs of smoke rising into the air, carried away by the light breeze.

"You catch it, I'll skin it," Thor says reasonably with a shrug of his shoulders. "Loki can cook it, and Jane can complain about it."

"I wasn't _complaining_," Jane argues, "I just - "

Natasha shushes her, index finger raised, and she steps carefully out of the circle, darting over towards the lake then skirting along the edge of it, out of range of the light cast by the fire. She is certain she can see the deer, standing stock still behind a leafy bush, and she treads carefully over the uneven ground, determined not to make a sound. When she is close enough to see the glint of its eyes in the dark, she raises the knife, whipping it through the air and launching it towards their the last moment, the deer must realise its untimely end is nigh, because it attempts to flee, but it's not quick enough, the knife piercing through fur and flesh. It drops to the ground, legs twitching for a few seconds, and then stills.

Satisfied, Natasha heads back towards the others and flops down onto the grass next to Loki.

"There's a job for you over there," she says to Thor, pointing towards the trees. He gets up, trudging towards the forest, disappearing into the dark. "You hungry?" she asks Jane.

"I could eat a little venison I guess," Jane shrugs, twirling her hair around her index finger, her eyes on the dark spot in the trees where she knows Thor to be.

"So you won't eat Bugs Bunny but Bambi is fair game?" Natasha teases.

"Don't…" Jane cringes, closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. She laughs, the sound muffled by her palms.

"What's a _Bugs Bunny_?" Loki asks, his nose scrunched in confusion, looking between the two of them. Jane lowers her hands and turns towards her, giving her a look that says quite plainly that she is leaving this explanation up to Natasha, who lets out a sigh and begins to educate Loki on cartoons before she even attempts the concept of talking rabbits and motherless fawns. Loki listens while she talks, his frown growing deeper and deeper with every word she says.

"Sounds odd," he says when she finishes. "No wonder Midgard is such a mess."

Natasha rolls her eyes and reclines on her elbows, the grass cool against her skin. Soon enough, Thor returns, a selection of meat cuts and joints skewered on spindly tree branches. Loki reaches out for his knife before Thor even sits down, and the latter obliges, passing it to him. Loki slips it back into his belt and takes the skewers from Thor and placing them over the fire, his brow creased in concentration as he balances them, determined that they each get an even grilling.

"You've hunted before, Natasha?" Thor asks, then takes a swig of ale and sets the flask down on the grass.

"Not a lot," Natasha says, looking up at the sky. "Not at all, really." She knows how to survive in the wilderness, but has never had to rely on those skills to get her by. She prefers foraging in urban areas if she's stuck, pickpocketing, or else wandering through foreign supermarkets and smuggling out what she can. Tonight is her first time eating anything she's killed.

"It was a very clean kill," Thor comments. Jane pulls a face.

"Of course it was a clean kill," Loki says exasperatedly. "She's an _assassin_, imbecile. Now _drop it_."

Thor falls silent, a sheepish expression working its way onto his face. She doesn't mind, but bringing up past victims of her assignments is hardly appropriate dinner conversation, even if they are doing things in an old school, hunter gatherer kind of way. The fire crackles, occasionally letting out a sharp hiss when excess fat drips from the venison cuts, splashing onto the flames. The smell of barbecue wafts through the air and Natasha smiles as she stares at the sky. She has seen many nights like this in cheap movies on late night TV, and had always assumed she had missed out on this part of life, that it was a part of that American sentimentality that the youth are plagued with, and thus completely out of reach for her. And yet, here she is, lightyears from her home planet, dining with gods in the middle of a field while the stars shine bright above them.

She has been so focused on doing her job, on getting through her assignments and then getting right on with the next ones, for her _entire life_. Never did she once stop and think that it might be nice to just _live_. She can't remember when she last looked at the stars, or if she has ever sat in a field just for the sake of relaxing. Her hand reaches across to find Loki's, and she links their fingers together. He doesn't bat an eyelid at the gesture, and still continues to fiddle with the skewers with his spare hand.

She's not sure how exactly things fell into place. She supposes that Loki felt far too weak to argue with Thor any further when he was still bedridden, and perhaps in the time that followed, when Thor was tending to Loki's every possible need, Loki finally conceded that Thor isn't as difficult to deal with as previously claimed. Either way, a truce has settled upon them, punctured only by the odd bout of bickering or barbed comment. As for herself, she stopped trying to explain away the immense feeling of relief she experienced when he opened his eyes, and stopped trying to stamp on those moments when his smile would make her smile in return. She has never just let go like this before, and she knows it could be either the best choice she's ever made, or the absolute worst. She's still not certain which way it's heading yet, but she remains optimistic, another foreign concept to her.

Soon the venison is cooked and passed around, murmurs of appreciation interrupting the sound of chewing. It's better than anything she'd ever get to eat on Earth, that much she knows. She has to keep ignoring little observations like that, horribly aware that the more she builds Asgard up in her mind, the harder it will be to leave. Staying isn't an option. She doesn't belong here, and apart from that, she isn't prepared to abandon her world simply for the sake of good food and a man who she doesn't even know if she can trust. Besides, she has a duty to SHIELD, to her friends, and she has sins that she still needs to atone for. She can't give it all up for a cushy palace life and meals under the stars. That won't wipe her ledger clean.

"Sif was asking me if you were well enough to take your throne back," Thor says, after the venison has been devoured and they are all plagued with post-dinner sleepiness. The trees rustle in the distance, birds fluttering between the branches, the wings catching leaves and leaving a trail of disturbance behind them.

"I suppose," Loki says tiredly. "Why, is she not keen holding power over men? I would have thought she'd find that _most_ enjoyable."

Thor flashes a brief smile. "I think she feels like she isn't entitled to such a position."

"Well the kingdom is still standing so she can't have done too bad a job," Loki says, leaning forward to stoke the fire, his eyes fixed on the glowing, white hot logs at the base of it. "But I'll relieve her tomorrow."

"Are you well enough?" Natasha asks.

"_Yes_."

"No but really," Natasha presses. "Because if you're not well enough you should give it a few days. She'll cope fine, I'm sure."

"If I'm well enough to come out here and cook game, then I'm well enough to sit on my throne and dish out orders," Loki replies, turning his eyes on her and fixing her with a challenging gaze. Natasha doesn't rise to it, just simply shrugs, and after a moment, when he's certain she won't retort, he turns back to the fire.

"We should return to the palace," Thor says, collecting up the empty flasks and tucking them under his arm. "It's getting late."

"We don't have a _curfew_, brother. I'm the king, remember? No rules apply."

Thor quirks an eyebrow at him and Loki lets out a huff, giving in, so Natasha stands up and holds out a hand, pulling him to his feet. He groans as he rises, pressing one palm flat against his chest, and closes his eyes for a few seconds, everybody silent and watching him. Natasha knows that he's fine, knows that it's going to be a long while before he's fully recovered, but concern twists her intestines nonetheless, and it's not until he opens his eyes and lowers his hand, the moment having passed, that she allows herself to let out the breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Thor busies himself with stamping out the fire, and Jane pulls her jacket closed tight as a chilly breeze that ripples the surface of the lake blows past them. Impatient, Loki takes Natasha by the hand and starts leading her back towards the palace, the golden glow of which she can see in the distance.

He struggles with the walk back, and all of them slow their pace without saying a word, his shallow breaths leaving Thor with a permanent frown of concern. Natasha places his arm around her shoulders and wraps her arms around his middle, under the guise of being cold, but he sees through it. He doesn't say anything, but he leans his weight against her, allowing her to support him, and in doing so, he is able to breathe more deeply, more steadily, and Thor's frown gradually fades away.

It's not until they're back in Loki's chambers that they actually say anything. He sits down on the edge of the bed and slowly starts to unbuckle the fastenings on his leather tunic, peeling away the material and wincing when he twists to get it over his shoulders. Natasha sighs and steps forward, taking the shirt from him and tugging it gently off of him.

"You should be resting," she tells him, tossing the tunic onto the bed and gathering up the soft material of his cotton undershirt. She pulls it over his head, ignoring his scowl.

"I'm fine," he says sourly.

"Whatever," she mutters, pulling open the drawer of his bedside cabinet and taking out the large tub of balm given to him by the healers. She unscrews the lid and dips her fingers into it, pulling out a great big gloop of silver cream, then applies it gently to Loki's scar, still red and angry looking. His hisses at the contact, the chilly cream at odds with the heat of his scar, but Natasha doesn't stop. She works the cream into his skin, carefully avoiding the thick black stitches that are holding his chest closed.

"I want to have a bath before I go to bed," he tells her, his eyes following the movement of her fingers on his chest.

"Okay," she says, frowning as she tries to work the cream into the swollen ridge at the top of his scar without hurting him.

"I'm going to need help," he adds, raising a hand and tucking Natasha's hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing against her jaw before he rests his hand in his lap once more.

"Really?" Natasha asks, glancing up at him in disbelief. "You can go out into the middle of nowhere and roast a deer but you can't sit in a bath?"

"The excursion has drained me of _all_ energy," he sighs, wincing when she catches a particularly raw edge of his skin.

"I'll call Salme then, all right?"

"No no," he says with a frown, sitting up straighter. "Let's not bother Salme."

"Then what?" Natasha asks, wiping the excess cream off of her hands and screwing the lid back on the tub. She returns it to the drawer and pushes it shut with snap, before turning her attention back to Loki. "D'you want me to get one of the healers instead?"

"_No_," he says, looking away from her. She stands there, resting one hand on her hip, awaiting a response. She can see the cogs turning in his mind as he avoids her gaze, his teeth pulling on the inside of his lower lip, the words on the tip of his tongue, though he is, apparently, not quite ready to release them.

She grows bored quickly, and eventually, after she's given him more than enough time to reply, she turns away. This is, it seems, enough to spur him into speaking.

"I want _you_," he says sulkily, as though it is against his better judgement to admit such a thing. She doesn't understand what the big deal is. It's gone without saying ever since he awoke in the healing chamber, and it is no secret. Thor knows, Jane knows, Sif, Fandral and Volstagg all know. There's nothing to hide.

"Well you only had to say," she says, holding out a hand for him to take. He narrows his eyes at her.

"I hate you," he says, but there is no feeling behind the words. It's like he's saying it to compensate for his previous confession, always trying to balance things out. He has a little way to go if he thinks he needs to balance out good things with bad things. It should only really be a one way situation.

She leads him towards the bathroom, and once he's settled on one of the large wicker armchairs, she turns on the taps, water gushing onto the marble bottom of the bath. As the level of the water rises, steam fills the room, fogging the large mirror hanging on the far wall and leaving a faint sheen of moisture on her skin.

Loki kicks off his boots, and has a halfhearted attempt at removing his socks without bending over and using his hands. He tries and fails to secure the wool between his big toe and the floor, and eventually Natasha grows tired of watching him and crouches down, tugging each sock off with one sharp pull. She then helps him to his feet, rolling her eyes when he feigns difficulty with removing the rest of his clothes, indulging his antics and helping him into the bath. His grunt of pain when he sinks into the water isn't fake, however, but he gets over it rather quickly, fixing his eyes on her then reaching out to pluck at the hem of her dress.

"Aren't you going to join me?"

"Hadn't planned to," Natasha says breezily, shutting off the taps, the water becoming still.

"But I _want_ you to," Loki says. And then, after a moment, in a far quieter voice: "Please."

She looks down at him, skewing her lips to one side as she considers his request. Then, without saying a word, she unbuttons her dress, and slips it from her shoulders, the material pooling at her feet. She ignores his sly grin as she steps out of it, though her skin erupts in goosebumps under the intensity of his stare. He bites his lip as she steps down into the water, his fingertips tapping on the edge of the bath in anticipation.

He's unimpressed when she settles herself on the opposite side of the bath, and holds out a hand, gesturing for her to come closer.

"Are you sure you're well enough for this?" she asks with a teasing grin, taking his hand and allowing him to guide her towards him.

"Oh yes," he says, as she straddles him, his smirk becoming more pronounced as he gazes at her, his hands trailing down her waist. "I'm quite well."

"But I though our excursion had _drained you of all your energy_?" she replies, resting one hand against his chest while the other brushes his damp hair away from his face.

"Not all of it," he replies, cupping her face and brushing his lips lightly against her own. She laughs softly, then closes the gap between them again, her lips meeting his. She can taste the sweetness of the ale on him, and she lets out a soft moan when he deepens the kiss, his arms wrapped tightly around her as she tangles her fingers in his hair.

She can't help but smile at the flash of disappointment in his eyes when she breaks away from him.

"I've got to go home at some point you know," she tells him, closing her eyes as his lips graze against her jaw, leaving line of sweet, light kisses.

"Not yet," he murmurs, running his hands up her thighs and resting them on her hips before he pulls her flush against him. Her heart speeds up, each thud sounding like the boom of a bass drum to her. If he can hear it, he doesn't say anything, far too content with letting his hands stray over her skin, seeking out every little quirk that is strictly Natasha.

"No," she replies, her mouth curving into a smile as he presses his lips to her throat. "Not yet."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
